FREDERIC 
ARNOLD 
KUMMER 


" 


THE  BRUTE 


OF  CALIF.   LIBRARY,   LOS  ATTCSKE 


"IT'S  A  LIE,"  HE   GASPED  HOARSELY,  THEN    SANK 
BACK  IN  HORROR 


~'J.  A  W 

RUTE 


FRED  ERIC 
/7\A  RN  O  L  D 
KUMMER 


Author 

tHE  GREEN  GOD" 

Illuslrationyjjx 
FRANK  SNAPP 


K  E  W  Y       O        1^      K 

W.J.VATT  6  COMPANY 


COPYBIGHT,  1912,  BY 

W.  J.  WATT  &  COMPANY 
Published,  April 


THE  BRUTE 


2130677 


THE  BRUTE 


CHAPTER  I 

EVERY  evening,  almost,  Donald  Rogers  and 
his  wife  Edith  sat  in  a  plain  little  living- 
room  in  their  apartment  in  Harlem,  and  worked  until 
ten  or  eleven  o'clock.  By  that  time  they  were  both 
ready  to  go  to  bed.  It  was  not  very  exciting.  Edith 
darned  stockings  or  sewed ;  Donald  toiled  at  his  desk, 
writing  letters  —  going  over  reports.  Sometimes, 
very  rarely,  they  went  to  the  theater.  They  had 
done  the  same  thing  for  nearly  eight  years,  and  to 
Edith,  at  least,  it  seemed  a  very  long  time. 

The  room  in  which  they  sat  reflected  in  its  furnish- 
ings much  of  the  life  these  two  led.  It  seemed  to 
suggest,  in  every  line,  an  unceasing  conflict  between 
poverty  and  ambition  —  not,  indeed,  the  poverty  of 
the  really  poor,  of  those  in  actual  want,  but  the 
poverty  of  the  well  born,  of  those  whose  desires  are 
forever  infinitely  beyond  their  means. 


8  THE  BRUTE 

This  was  evidenced  by  many  curious  contrasts. 
The  furniture,  for  instance,  was  for  the  most  part  of 
that  cheap  and  gloomy  variety  known  as  mission  oak, 
yet  the  designs  were  good,  as  though  its  purchasers 
had  striven  toward  some  ideal  which  they  had  not 
the  means  to  realize.  The  rug  on  the  floor,  an  imita- 
tion oriental,  was  still  of  excellent  coloring;  the  pic- 
tures showed  taste  in  their  selection  —  such  taste, 
indeed,  as  is  possible  under  the  limitations  imposed 
by  a  slender  purse  —  among  them  might  have  been 
discovered  a  charming  little  water-color  and  some 
reproductions  of  etchings  by  Whistler. 

The  curtains  were  imitation  lace,  the  ornaments 
on  the  mantel  imitation  bronze,  the  cushions  in  the 
Morris  chair  imitation  Spanish  leather.  The  key- 
note of  the  whole  room  was  imitation  —  everything  in 
it,  almost,  was  the  result  of  refinement  and  excellent 
taste  on  the  one  hand,  hampered  by  lack  of  money  on 
the  other.  The  effect  was  somewhat  that  given  by 
twenty  dollar  sets  of  ermine  furs,  or  ropes  of  pearls 
at  bargain-counter  prices.  Edith,  caring  more  about 
such  matters  than  her  husband,  realized  this  note  of 
imitation  keenly,  but  found  it  more  satisfactory  to 
have  even  the  shadow  of  what  she  really  desired  than 


THE  BRUTE  9 

to  drop  back  to  another  level  of  existence,  and  con- 
tent herself  with  ingrain  carpets,  shiny  yellow  furni- 
ture, and  the  sort  of  pictures  made  of  mother  of 
pearl,  which  are  given  away  with  tea-store  coupons. 
In  her  present  environment,  she  chafed  —  in  the 
other,  she  would  have  been  suffocated. 

On  this  particular  night  in  March,  they  were  at 
home  as  usual.  Donald  had  composed  himself  at  his 
desk,  hunched  over,  his  head  resting  upon  his  left 
hand,  staring  at  the  papers  before  him.  The  only 
sound  in  the  room  was  the  ticking  of  the  trading- 
stamp  clock  on  the  mantel,  and  the  clanking  of  the 
steam  pipes.  For  a  long  time  Donald  stared,  and 
wrote  nothing.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  his  wife. 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Edith,"  he  exclaimed  im- 
patiently, "what's  the  matter  with  those  pipes?" 

Edith  glanced  at  him,  but  did  not  move.  She  came 
back  slowly  from  her  land  of  dreams. 

"  The  janitor  has  probably  just  turned  on  the 
steam.  It's  been  off  for  the  past  week  on  account 
of  the  warm  weather." 

Donald  rose,  and  went  nervously  over  to  the  radi- 
ator under  the  window. 

"  I  can't  write  with  this  infernal  noise  going  on," 


10  THE  BRUTE 

he  grumbled,  as  he  turned  to  his  desk.  "  Will  it  be 
too  cold  for  you?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  I'm  used  to  it."  Mrs.  Rogers'  tone 
was  patient,  resigned. 

Donald  resumed  his  writing,  and  sat  for  a  few 
moments  in  silence,  but  the  tone  of  his  wife's  remark 
had  not  been  lost  upon  him.  He  turned  toward  her 
presently,  with  an  anxious  look,  searching  her  face 
keenly. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Edith  ?  "  he  inquired  kindly. 
"Don't  you  feel  well?" 

"  Not  particularly."  Mrs.  Rogers'  voice  was  dis- 
couraging. 

"  Anything  wrong?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  haven't  seemed  yourself  for  the  past  week. 
You  don't  seem  to  take  any  interest  in  things." 

"  What  things  ?  "  inquired  Edith,  with  sudden  as- 
perity. She  took  a  sufficient  interest  in  the  things 
that  seemed  worth  while  to  her,  she  well  enough  knew, 
but  they  were  not  those  which  made  up  her  present 
surroundings. 

Donald  seemed  hurt  at  her  tone.  He  regarded  her 
with  an  injured  expression. 


THE  BRUTE  11 

"  Why,"  he  ventured  hesitatingly,  "  all  the  things 
that  make  up  our  life  —  our  home.'* 

The  suggestion  was  not  happy.  It  was,  indeed, 
those  very  things  that  Edith  had  been  mentally  re- 
viewing in  her  inner  consciousness  throughout  the 
evening,  and  her  conclusions  had  not  been  in  their 
favor. 

"  The  steam  pipes,  I  suppose,"  she  returned  scorn- 
fully, "  and  the  price  of  eggs,  and  whether  we  are 
going  to  be  able  to  pay  our  bills  next  month  or 
not." 

"  Don't  be  so  unkind,  Edith,"  said  her  husband, 
with  an  expression  of  pain.  Her  remark  had  hurt 
him,  and,  although  she  realized  it,  she  somehow  re- 
fused to  admit  to  herself  that  she  regretted  it. 

"  It's  true,  isn't  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  Surely  you  realize  that  I  am  doing  the  best  I 
can,"  he  replied  slowly.  "  I  can't  do  any  more." 

"  Well,  suppose  I  do.  Does  that  make  it  any 
easier  ?  " 

She  felti  angry  and  annoyed,  first  with  Donald 
because  he  seemed  unable  to  realize  how  barren  her 
life  with  him  was,  and  then  with  herself  because  she 
had  allowed  herself  to  become  involved  in  this  useless 


12  THE  BRUTE 

discussion.  Donald,  she  knew,  would  always  be  the 
same.  It  was  hopeless  to  expect  him  to  change,  or 
to  try,  by  argument,  to  make  him  do  so. 

"  Are  you  angry  because  I  couldn't  afford  to  get 
you  that  new  hat  for  Easter?  "  he  asked,  as  he  began 
to  refill  his  pipe. 

This  falling  back  upon  man's  universal  belief  that 
a  woman's  happiness  or  unhappiness  depends  solely 
upon  her  clothes  annoyed  her  still  further. 

"  Don't  talk  like  a  fool,  Donald,"  she  exclaimed, 
throwing  down  her  sewing  angrily.  "  I'm  tired, 
that's  all.  For  eight  years  I've  darned  stockings, 
collected  trading  stamps,  done  my  own  housework, 
and  tried  to  imagine  that  the  hats  I've  trimmed  my- 
self looked  as  though  they  came  straight  from  Paris. 
When  a  woman  has  done  that  for  eight  years,  she 
has  a  right  to  be  tired." 

"  But,  Edith,  it  will  not  always  be  that  way.  You 
know  how  I  am  working  for  the  future." 

Mrs.  Rogers  picked  up  her  sewing  and  resumed  her 
air  of  patient  resignation.  "  The  future  is  a  long 
way  off.  When  it  comes,  if  it  ever  does,  I  shall 
probably  be  so  old  that  I  won't  care  what  sort  of 
hats  I  wear." 


THE  BRUTE  13 

"  Haven't  I  had  to  endure  it  all,  as  well  as  you  ? 
Don't  you  suppose  it  hurts  me  not  to  be  able  to  give 
you  everything  you  wish?  " 

"  It's  different  with  a  man."  She  smiled  a  trifle 
bitterly,  as  she  spoke.  "You  have  your  business, 
your  friends,  your  ambitions.  In  ten  years  I  shall 
be  an  old  woman;  you  will  be  just  ready  to  enjoy 
yourself." 

Donald  rose  from  the  desk  and  began  to  walk  about 
the  room  nervously.  He  was  too  sincerely  fond  of 
Edith  to  want  to  quarrel  with  her,  and  he  knew,  as 
well  as  she  did,  the  truth  of  what  she  had  just  said. 
After  all,  he  thought,  perhaps  the  woman  does  have 
the  worst  of  the  matrimonial  bargain,  in  circum- 
stances, at  least,  such  as  those  with  which  he  and 
Edith  were  struggling. 

"  There's  nothing  I  would  care  about  enjoying, 
Edith,  without  you.  Surely  you  know  that." 

"  I  know.  It's  very  good  of  you  to  feel  that  way. 
It's  lack  of  money,  I  suppose,  after  all,  that  makes 
everything  so  hard." 

"  I  can't  do  the  impossible,  Edith.  You  know 
what  my  income  is,  and  what  I  have  been  scraping 
and  saving  for  all  these  years." 


14r  THE  BRUTE 

"  To  put  every  cent  you  had  in  the  world  into  that 
glass  factory  in  West  Virginia.  I  know  —  very 
well."  It  was  clear,  from  the  tone  of  Mrs.  Rogers' 
voice,  that  she  felt  little  sympathy  for  this  part  of 
her  husband's  plans,  at  any  rate. 

"  Yes,  I  have.  I  know  you  have  opposed  it,  but  I 
am  convinced  that  it  is  a  great  proposition.  In  five 
years,  or  possibly  less,  I  expect  to  get  big  profits 
from  it.  Isn't  it  worth  waiting  and  saving 
for?  " 

"  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not."  Mrs.  Rogers' 
tone  was  not  encouraging.  "  Five  years  is  a  long 
time.  I'm  not  sure  but  I'd  rather  have  a  little  bit 
more  human  pleasure  and  enjoyment  as  I  go  along. 
For  years  —  ever  since  Bobbie  was  born  —  I've'had 
to  spend  the  summer  here  in  this  wretched,  hot  place. 
It  hasn't  done  me  any  good.  It  hasn't  done  him 
any  good.  I'd  rather  you  would  put  a  little  less  into 
the  glass  business  and  a  little  more  into  your  wife's 
and  child's  health  and  happiness." 

Mr.  Rogers  stopped  in  his  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room.  It  was  clear  that  his  wife's  remarks  had 
touched  a  sensitive  spot. 

"  Edith,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  cannot  mean  what 


THE  BRUTE  15 

you  say.  Everything  I  have  done  has  been  for  you 
and  for  him.  Bobbie  seems  to  me  to  be  well  enough. 
Think  of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  children  that 
have  to  spend  the  summer  in  the  city.  God  knows 
I'd  give  my  life  for  him,  or  for  you,  too,  if  you  needed 
it ;  it's  what  I  am  doing.  I  can't  do  any  more." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Edith,  with  a  sigh.  "  I  suppose 
I'm  very  unreasonable,  but  somehow  my  life  has 
seemed  so  empty,  all  these  years." 

"  Haven't  you  everything  you  need?  " 

"Everything  I  need?  Do  you  think  three  meals 
a  day  and  a  place  to  sleep  is  everything  a  woman 
needs?  " 

"  Many  women  have  less." 

"  And  many  have  more.  A  woman's  needs  depend 
upon  her  desires,  her  temperament.  What  may  be  a 
necessity  to  one,  another  would  have  no  use  for. 
Some  women,  down  in  Tenth  Avenue,  might  think 
this  Paradise."  She  looked  about  the  room  scorn- 
fully. "  And  a  lot  more,  up  in  Fifth  Avenue,  would 
think  it  —  well  —  the  other  place.  That's  the  dif- 
ference." 

Donald  looked  at  her  curiously,  and  noted  her 
flushed  face,  her  heaving  breast.  These  things  evi- 


16  THE  BRUTE 

dently  were  very  near  her  heart.  "  What  are  your 
needs,  Edith?  "  he  asked  kindly. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a  question?  "  Edith 
failed  to  appreciate  his  kind  intention.  She  was 
fairly  launched  upon  her  argument,  and  the  tumult 
of  discontent  which  had  been  gathering  in  her  breast 
burst  forth  with  bitter  intensity.  "  Did  you  ever 
suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  was  a  woman  who  could 
be  satisfied  with  the  merest  commonplaces  of  exist- 
ence? Don't  you  see  that  I  need  life  —  real,  broad- 
ening, joyous,  human  life,  with  all  its  hopes,  its  fears, 
its  longings,  its  successes,  its  failures?  Do  you  think 
I  find  those  things  here?  "  She  swept  the  room  with 
an  all-embracing  gesture,  and  stood  confronting 
him  with  flushed  cheeks,  her  eyes  flashing  rebel- 
liously. 

Her  evidence  of  feeling  both  startled  and  hurt  him. 
He  had  supposed  that  all  her  years  of  patient  wait- 
ing had  covered  a  mind  serenely  satisfied  with  the 
present  through  a  belief  in  the  future.  He  looked 
at  her  for  a  few  moments  in  surprise.  "  I  am  very 
sorry,  Edith,"  he  began  haltingly.  "  I,  too,  feel  the 
need  of  those  things,  but  I  do  not  allow  the  lack  of 
them  to  spoil  my  life.  I  have  borne  my  trials  and 


THE  BRUTE  17 

done  my  duty  as  best  I  could,  and  I  expect  you  to 
do  the  same.  If  we  have  not  money,  and  all  the 
pleasures  and  luxuries  it  brings,  we  at  least  have 
health  and  our  daily  bread,  and  above  all,  our  little 
boy.  We  ought  to  be  very  thankful." 

"  Do  you  suppose  for  a  moment  that  I  do  not  ap- 
preciate Bobbie?  He  is  the  only  thing  that  keeps 
me  here.'* 

The  troubled  look  on  Donald's  face  grew  deeper 
as  he  answered  her,  and  with  it  came  an  expression 
of  alarm.  He  had  never  doubted  Edith's  love  for 
him,  and  her  words  were  a  great  shock. 

"  The  only  thing  that  keeps  you  here ! "  he  cried. 
"  Is  your  love  for  me  of  no  importance  to  you?  " 

Edith  surveyed  the  plain,  poorly  furnished  little 
room  with  ill-concealed  dislike.  "  This  sort  of 
thing,"  she  said  bitterly,  "  doesn't  offer  much  for 
love  to  feed  upon." 

"  Edith !  You  surely  do  not  realize  what  you  are 
saying.  To  hear  you  talk,  anyone  might  suppose  we 
were  on  the  point  of  going  to  the  poorhouse." 

"  It  couldn't  be  worse.  I'm  tired  of  it,  and  I  can't 
help  saying  so.  I  suppose  you  will  think  me  very 
ungrateful,  but  I  can't  help  it.  We  never  have  any 


18  THE  BRUTE 

pleasures,  any  happiness,  any  real  enjoyment.  It's 
nothing  but  mere  existence." 

"  I  don't  agreel  with  you.  I  am  not  doing  so 
badly.  We  are  both  of  us  young.  In  a  few  years 
I  hope  to  be  comparatively  well  off,  and  then  things 
will  be  very  different.  I  am  working  and  striving 
for  you  every  hour  of  the  day.  Do  you  think  I  would 
do  it,  if  I  did  not  feel  that  you  love  me  —  that  you 
believed  in  me  ?  " 

He  went  over  to  her,  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 
"  What  has  upset  you  so,  to-night,  dear  ?  Is  there 
anything  you  particularly  want  —  anything  that  I 
could  do  for  you  ?  Tell  me  —  if  there  is,  you  know 
I  will  do  everything  in  my  power  to  gratify  you." 

"  No  —  nothing  that  you  could  do."  She  seemed 
unconscious  of  the  pain  she  was  giving  him.1 

"  I  thought  perhaps  it  was  about  this  summer. 
You  told  me  that  your  mother  and  sister  were  anxious 
to  take  a  cottage  at  the  seashore,  and  that  they 
wanted  you  to  go  with  them  —  is  that  it?  " 

"  No,"  she  replied.  "  It  isn't  important.  You 
said  you  couldn't  afford  it." 

Donald  left  her  abruptly  and,  walking  over  to  the 
desk,  began  to  fumble  nervously  with  the  papers  on 


THE  BRUTE  19 

it.  It  hurt  him  to  the  depths  of  his  nature  to  be 
obliged  to  refuse  Edith  this  request;  indeed,  what 
she  had  asked  he  had  already  himself  thought  of,  and 
been  forced  to  conclude  that,  much  as  he  wanted  to 
give  her  and  Bobbie  this  pleasure,  he  could  not  do 
it.  He  turned  to  her  with  a  nervous  twitching  of 
the  mouth,  which  had  of  late  become  characteristic. 

"  Every  year,  Edith,"  he  said,  "  we  have  this  dis- 
cussion. Your  mother  and  sister  have  no  responsi- 
bilities. They  can  give  up  their  rooms  at  the  board- 
ing house  and  go  to  the  country  without  adding  a 
dollar  to  their  expenses.  You  cannot  do  that.  It 
will  cost  a  hundred  dollars  a  month,  at  least,  for 
your  expenses  and  Bobbie's,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
extra  expense  of  my  taking  my  meals  at  restaurants. 
I  can't  afford  it  this  year,  Edith.  I  wish  I  could, 
but  I  can't." 

"  Why  can't  you  ?  "  Her  tone  was  aggrieved  — 
almost  defiant.  "  Is  business  so  bad?  I  thought 
things  had  been  so  much  better  this  month." 

"  It's  the  glass  plant,  Edith.  We  are  having  a  lot 
of  trouble.  It  takes  every  cent  I  can  scrape  to- 
gether to  meet  expenses.  We  are  a  new  concern. 
Our  goods  are  not  known.  Competition  is  severe. 


20  THE  BRUTE 

We  are  trying  to  build  up  a  new  business.  I  can't 
weaken  on  it  now.  Surely  you  can  stand  one  more 
summer  in  the  city  —  if  I  can.  Perhaps,  next 
year  —  " 

"  Next  year ! "  she  cried.  "  It's  always  next  year. 
It's  been  that  way  now  for  eight  years,  and  about 
the  only  outing  I've  had  has  been  a  trip  to  Coney 
Island  on  the  boat.  I'm  sick  of  it.  It's  drudgery. 
A  hired  girl  has  more  freedom  that  I  have  —  and 
more  money,  too,  for  that  matter." 

"  Edith ! " 

"  Oh,  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say.  I  made 
my  bed,  and  I  ought  to  be  willing  to  lie  in  it.  I  knew 
you  were  a  poor  man  when  I  married  you.  Well, 
suppose  I  did.  I  didn't  mind  poverty  then  —  the 
enthusiasm  of  youth  made  it  all  seem  a  pleasure,  like 
camping  out,  and  living  on  canned  beans  and  corn 
bread.  It's  fine,  for  a  time,  but  after  a  while,  when 
the  novelty  has  worn  off,  you  get  sort  of  tired  of  it. 
There  comes  a  time  in  every  married  woman's  life 
when  she  sits  down  and  looks  at  things  from  both 
sides,  and  wonders  whether,  after  all,  it's  really 
worth  while." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  complain,  if  I  don't," 


THE  BRUTE  21 

said  Donald  wearily.  "  I'm  sorry  we  haven't  more 
money,  on  your  account  and  on  my  own,  as  well. 
There  are  many  things  I  should  like  to  do." 

"  Oh,  you're  a  man."  Edith  flung  herself  across 
the  room  and  began  turning  over  the  sheets  of  music 
upon  the  piano.  "  If  you  have  a  couple  of  new  suits 
of  clothes  a  year  and  can  smoke  the  kind  of  cigars  you 
like,  you  don't  bother  your  head  if  some  other  man 
has  a  dozen  suits  and  keeps  a  valet.  It's  different 
with  a  woman.  Home-made  dresses,  dollar  corsets, 
riding  in  surface  cars,  seem  mighty  hard,  when  you 
see  other  women  in  their  autos,  their  Russian  sables, 
their  Paris  gowns  —  women  who  spend  more  money 
on  their  dogs  every  month  than  I  have  to  spend  on 
Bobbie.  It's  a  thousand  times  harder  for  a  woman 
to  be  poor  than  it  is  for  a  man.  Most  men  don't 
know  it,  but  that  doesn't  alter  the  fact  —  it's  true, 
just  the  same." 

She  suddenly  sat  down  at  the  piano,  and  after 
striking  a  few  discords,  began  to  play  the  "  Jewel 
Song  "  from  "  Faust  "  in  a  rapid  tempo. 

Donald  followed  her  with  his  eyes.  "  It  seems  to 
me,"  he  said  gravely,  "  that  when  a  man  wants  to  do 
so  much  for  his  wife  and  realizes  that  he  can't  it's 


22  THE  BRUTE 

the  hardest  of  all  —  much  harder  than  doing  without 
things  yourself." 

Edith  did  not  speak  for  several  moments. 

"  I  don't  wonder  Marguerite  was  tempted  by  the 
jewels,  and  all  that,"  she  remarked,  presently,  then 
concluded  her  playing  with  a  series  of  crashing 
chords,  and  rose  from  her  seat  with  a  harsh  laugh. 

"  Edith,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  say  such  things." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I?  Perhaps  they  are  true.  How 
do  you  know  that  I  am  not  being  tempted,  too?  I 
suppose,  if  the  devil  were  to  come  along  and  offer  me 
a  million  or  two,  I'd  run  away  with  him  without 
stopping  to  pack  my  trunk."  She  resumed  her  chair, 
and  picked  up  her  sewing  again.  "  Go  on  with  your 
writing,  Donald.  I'm  sorry  this  discussion  came  up. 
It  hasn't  done  a  bit  of  good.  I  suppose  you  think 
me  heartless  and  unkind.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  not 
the  first  woman  who  has  found  married  life  a  harder 
road  than  she  had  anticipated." 

She  bent  over  her  sewing  with  a  sense  of  anger  and 
annoyance  with  herself  for  having  entered  into  such 
a  purposeless  discussion.  Donald  sat  down  at  his 
desk  and  again  took  up  his  work.  Only  the  ticking 
of  the  clock  and  the  scratching  of  his  pen  broke  the 


THE  BRUTE  23 

heavy  silence.     Life  had  once  more  resumed  its  mo- 
notonous procession. 

After  a  long  time,  Edith  put  away  her  sewing,  and 
retired  to  her  bedroom.  What  sort  of  a  life  was  this, 
she  thought  to  herself,  where  one  was  forced  to  go 
to  bed  at  ten  o'clock  because  there  was  nothing  fur- 
ther to  keep  one  awake?  She  got  into  bed  and  read 
a  magazine  for  an  hour.  Then  she  fell  asleep. 
Donald  was  still  writing. 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEN  Donald  Rogers  left  his  apartment  in 
One  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street  the  next 
morning,  he  had  an  unaccountable  feeling  that  some- 
thing out  of  the  ordinary,  something  of  a  nature  un- 
foreseen and  menacing,  would  occur  to  him  before  the 
day  was  over.  Being  of  a  somewhat  matter-of-fact 
turn  of  mind,  however,  he  laughed  at  his  fears,  and 
attributed  them  to  a  slight  attack  of  the  great 
American  disease,  brought  on  by  over-much  smoking. 
Perhaps,  had  he  been  a  Frenchman,  and  a  magpie  or 
a  hare  had  suddenly  crossed  his  path,  he  might  have 
been  tempted  to  take  off  his  hat  to  the  one,  or  to  bow 
politely  to  the  other ;  as  it  was,  he  put  forebodings 
out  of  his  mind,  as  unworthy  a  practical  man  of  af- 
fairs. The  uncomfortable  feeling  persisted,  however, 
in  spite  of  his  optimistic  efforts  to  escape  from  it 
in  the  depths  of  his  morning  paper,  all  during  the 
long  ride  down-town  in  the  subway,  and  was  forgot- 
ten only  in  the  complexities  of  his  morning's  mail. 

24 


THE  BRUTE  25 

The  unfortunate  discussion  with  his  wife,  Edith, 
the  night  before,  which  was  the  real  cause  of  his  de- 
pression, he  had  religiously  put  out  of  his  mind,  at- 
tributing her  discontent  to  some  purely  temporary 
irritability  which  would  soon  be  forgotten. 

They  had  neither  of  them  referred  to  the  matter 
at  breakfast ;  Donald  had  been  in  his  usual  hurry, 
Edith  occupied  with  Bobbie,  who  had  a  habit  of 
awakening  somewhat  querulous  and  difficult  to  please. 
Her  manner  had  been  serene,  if  a  trifle  distant  and 
reserved.  Donald  felt  that  already  the  storm  had 
passed,  and  dismissed  the  matter  from  his  mind. 

He  spent  the  forenoon  busily  occupied  in  his 
office.  It  was  not  much  of  an  office,  as  such  things 
go  in  New  York,  being  merely  a  small  private  room 
with  a  larger  and  lighter  one  adjoining  it,  but  it 
sufficed  for  all  the  needs  of  his  business,  which  was 
that  of  a  consulting  mechanical  engineer. 

The  inner  room,  which  was  the  smaller  of  the  two, 
served  to  receive  his  clients,  of  which  there  were  not 
many ;  the  outer  contained  the  draughting  tables  and 
his  assistant.  Yet,  small  and  plain  as  these  rooms 
were,  they  reflected  to  a  surprising  extent  the  char- 
acter of  the  man.  There  were  no  attempts  at  deco- 


26  THE  BRUTE 

ration;  no  concessions  to  any  sense  of  the  artistic; 
everything  was  plain,  solid,  durable,  honest,  like  the 
man  himself.  Only  the  photographs  of  Edith,  his 
wife,  and  Bobbie,  his  little  boy,  in  a  silver  frame  upon 
the  flat-topped  oak  desk,  bespoke  the  sentiment  which 
was  so  deep  and  vital  a  part  of  Donald  Rogers'  na- 
ture. 

Existence  had  not  dealt  over  kindly  with  this 
descendant  of  the  dour  land  of  Wallace  and  Bruce, 
but  he  met  it  with  high  courage,  and  head  up,  as 
befitted  one  of  his  race.  Born  in  a  small  town  along 
the  upper  reaches  of  the  Hudson,  he  had  known  the 
love  of  a  father  only  long  enough  to  clutch  his  fingers 
in  the  first  futile  efforts  to  face  the  world  upon 
two  feet,  instead  of  on  all  fours ;  the  mother,  however, 
had  survived  longer,  and  it  was  to  her  that  Donald 
owed  the  sturdy  lessons  in  the  eternal  Tightness  of 
things  that  underlay  and  governed  all  his  actions. 

He  was  sixteen  when  she  was  laid  beside  her  long- 
expectant  husband,  and  Donald,  her  only  child,  went 
out  into  the  world  with  a  very  small  patrimony  and 
a  very  great  grief.  Yet  this  sweet-faced  woman, 
locked  in  her  long  leaden  sleep,  was  not  dead;  her 
faith,  her  courage,  her  high  ideals,  lived  and  breathed 


THE  BRUTE  27 

in  her  son,  and  no  act  of  his  life  but  showed  in  some 
way,  however  slight,  their  purifying  effect. 

Donald  Rogers'  father  had  been  a  steam  engineer 
without  a  college  education ;  his  son  determined  to  fol- 
low in  his  footsteps  with  one,  and,  with  this  purpose 
strong  within  him,  gathered  together  the  small  store 
of  worldly  goods  with  which  the  fates  had  endowed  him 
and  went  to  New  York  and  the  engineering  course 
at  Columbia.  It  took  him  five  years  to  complete  the 
course,  partly  because  his  early  education  had  been 
somewhat  incomplete,  partly  owing  to  the  necessity 
under  which  he  labored,  of  earning  sufficient  money, 
as  he  went  along,  to  piece  out  the  fragments  of  his 
small  inheritance  and  maintain  himself.  This  he  did 
by  doing  draughting  work  at  night;  it  was  hard  on 
the  eyes,  but  the  experience  helped  him  in  his  pro- 
fession. At  twenty-two  he  was  graduated  with 
honors ;  these,  with  his  diploma,  constituted  his  stock 
in  trade;  his  weapons  with  which  to  win  fame  and 
fortune. 

Five  years  of  employment  in  subordinate  positions 
had  not  only  given  him  practical  experience,  but  had 
taught  him  the  futility  of  expecting  the  aforemen- 
tioned fame  and  fortune  while  working  on  a  salary ; 


28  THE  BRUTE 

his  courage,  his  savings  and  some  staunch  business 
friends  all  favored  the  idea  of  launching  out  for  him- 
self. The  results  had  been  encouraging;  he  now, 
after  eight  years,  had  a  substantial,  if  small,  prac- 
tice, and  an  unshaken  belief  in  himself  and  his  future. 

It  was  about  the  time  he  first  opened  his  office  as 
consulting  engineer  that  he  had  met  Edith  Pope,  and 
they  were  married  within  a  year.  She  was  a  girl 
of  unusual  beauty,  and  through  both  inheritance  and 
training  quite  his  opposite.  Perhaps  it  was  because 
of  this  that  she  had  attracted  him. 

Her  father  had  been  a  real-estate  dealer,  and 
through  his  ability  and  industry  had  made  during 
his  somewhat  short  business  career  a  large  income. 
His  wife,  on  the  other  hand,  had  shown  such  ability 
and  industry  in  spending  it  that,  when  he  died,  which 
he  did  about  the  time  that  Edith  was  just  entering 
her  'teens,  he  left  only  enough  to  provide  a  meager 
living  for  herself,  her  mother  and  her  sister  Alice, 
two  years  her  junior.  Mrs.  Pope  had  never  been  able 
to  accustom  herself  to  the  blow;  she  lived  in  a  con- 
stant atmosphere  of  past  glories  and  was  never  tired 
of  recounting  to  her  daughters  all  the  comforts  she 
had  enjoyed  when  her  "  dear  J.  B.,"  as  she  mourn- 


THE  BRUTE  29 

fully  designated  her  deceased  better  half,  was  alive. 
Never  a  day  passed,  but  Edith  and  her  sister  were 
warned  against  the  evils  and  dangers  of  marrying  a 
man  without  money;  to  some  extent  it  might  have 
appeared  that  Mrs.  Pope  hoped  to  regain,  through 
the  matrimonial  successes  of  her  daughters,  those 
luxuries  of  existence  which  she  fondly  believed  were, 
to  her,  absolute  necessities. 

Whether  or  not  her  children  paid  any  serious  at- 
tention to  her  advice  it  would  be  difficult  to  say ;  per- 
haps the  best  answer  to  the  question  lay  in  the  fact 
that,  when  Edith  met  Donald  in  the  boarding-house 
on  Tenth  Street,  which  was  for  the  time  being  their 
mutual  home,  she  straightway  fell  head  over  heels  in 
love  with  him,  and  married  him  before  the  year  was 
out,  in  spite  of  her  mother's  strenuous  objections. 
That  was  eight  years  ago,  and,  if  Edith  Rogers  was 
not  entirely  reconciled  to  living  in  a  Harlem  flat 
and  doing  her  own  housework,  she  at  least  found  a 
large  measure  of  compensation  in  her  little  boy,  Bob- 
bie, who  was  now  six,  and  a  darling,  as  even  his 
grandmother  was  forced  grudgingly  to  admit.  Her 
assent  was  grudging  because  Mrs.  Pope  had  never 
forgiven  her  son-in-law  for  depriving  her  of  her 


80  THE  BRUTE 

daughter ;  one  matrimonial  asset  thus  rudely  snatched 
away  forced  her  to  concentrate  all  her  hopes  upon 
Alice,  and  that  young  lady,  at  the  age  of  rising 
twenty-six,  had  begun  to  show  signs  of  extreme 
restiveness,  possibly  due  to  an  inward  conviction  that 
even  a  Harlem  flat  and  a  four-by-six  kitchenette  pos- 
sesses some  advantages  not  to  be  found  in  boarding- 
houses  of  the  less-expensive  variety,  and  that  a  real 
live  man  with  a  living  income  is  better  than  an  old 
maid's  dreams  of  a  possible,  but  hitherto  undisclosed, 
millionaire.  Emerson  Hall,  a  friend  of  Donald's, 
whom  she  had  met  a  few  months  before,  assisted  her 
greatly  in  arriving  at  these  not  unusual  conclusions. 

It  was  long  after  one  o'clock  when  Donald  Rogers, 
absorbed  in  a  problem  of  power  transmission,  be- 
thought himself  of  luncheon.  One  was  his  usual 
hour ;  he  dropped  his  calculations,  seized  his  hat,  and 
and  in  a  moment  was  threading  his  way  through  the 
never  ending  throngs  of  lower  Broadway,  on  his  way 
to  a  little  chop  house  in  John  Street,  long  famous  for 
its  English  mutton  chops  and  cream  ale. 

As  he  came  abreast  of  the  Singer  Building,  he  felt 
someone  grasp  his  arm  from  behind  and  heard  a 
cheery  voice,  with  a  familiar  ring  about  it,  calling  to 


THE  BRUTE  31 

him.  He  turned  and  looked  into  the  handsome, 
smiling  face  of  a  tall  bronzed  man,  whose  costume 
indicated  clearly  that  he  hailed  from  the  West. 

"  Billy  West ! "  he  exclaimed,  gripping  the  new- 
comer's hand  joyfully.  "Where  on  earth  did  you 
drop  from?  I  thought  you  were  in  Colorado." 

"  I  was,  until  four  days  ago.  Thought  I'd  come 
East  for  awhile  and  look  the  old  town  over.  How's 
everything?  "  His  glance  was  full  of  smiling  in- 
quiry. "  Making  lots  of  money?  " 

"  Not  so  much  that  I  have  to  sit  up  nights  thinking 
how  to  spend  it,"  replied  Rogers,  a  trifle  bitterly. 
"  Had  your  lunch?  " 

"  No.  Didn't  want  to  eat  alone.  I've  been  away 
so  long  I  hardly  know  a  soul  in  this  blessed  burg." 

Rogers  took  his  arm.  "  Come  along  with  me,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  just  on  my  way." 

West  nodded.  "  Got  to  see  my  lawyers  some  time 
to-day,  but  later  will  do  just  as  well."  In  five 
minutes  they  were  seated  in  the  chop  house,  order- 
ing luncheon. 

"  How  are  you  getting  along  out  there  among  the 
miners?  "  laughed  Donald,  as  he  dismissed  the  waiter 
with  their  order.  "  Hope  you  like  it  better  than 


32  THE  BRUTE 

doing  laboratory  work  down  in  Jersey.  Ought  to  be 
wonderful  opportunities  for  a  man,  out  there."  He 
paused  for  a  moment,  thoughtful.  "  You  know  I 
always  used  to  say,  when  we  were  in  college,  that  I 
meant  to  go  West  some  day.  I've  never  got  there, 
though.  New  York  has  become  a  habit,  I'm  afraid. 
Can't  seem  to  break  away  from  it." 

West  looked  at  his  friend  with  a  faintly  quizzical 
smile,  and  hesitated  for  a  moment,  as  though  he  al- 
most feared  to  tell  the  other  what  had  come  into  his 
mind.  Then  he  leaned  across  the  table,  and  his  face 
suddenly  became  grave.  "  Don,"  he  saic^  earnestly, 
"  the  luck  I've  had  out  there  has  been  so  wonderful, 
so  almost  unbelievable,  that,  even  though  it  happened 
nearly  two  years  ago,  I  still  can  hardly  realize  that 
it's  true." 

"  Strike  a  gold  mine  ?  "  inquired  Rogers,  with  a 
laugh. 

"  That's  exactly  what  I  did  do,  and  believe  me, 
Don,  it's  some  mine.  We  capitalized  it  last  year  at 
a  million,  of  which  yours  truly  owns  half,  and  it  paid 
over  five  per  cent,  from  the  start.  I  haven't  got  used 
to  figuring  up  my  income  yet^  but  just  at  present  I 
think  it's  running  pretty  close  to  thirty  thousand  a 


THE  BRUTE  33 

year,  and  more  corning."  He  leaned  back  in  his 
chair  with  a  satisfied  smile.  "  I'm  vice-president  of 
the  concern.  The  Lone  Star  mine,  it's  called,  up  on 
the  Little  Ash  river;  but  I  haven't  anything  much 
to  do  with  the  management  —  leave  all  that  to  the 
Boston  crowd  that  put  in  the  money.  They're  a  fine, 
conservative  lot  of  fellows,  with  plenty  of  experience, 
and  I  know  my  interests  are  perfectly  safe  in  their 
hands.  So  you  see,  I'm  a  sort  of  a  gentleman  of  leis- 
ure just  at  present,  with  plenty  of  money  to  spend, 
and  nobody  in  particular  to  spend  it  on,  so  I  thought 
I'd  take  a  run  down  to  little  old  New  York  and  put 
in  a  year  or  so  getting  acquainted  with  some  of  my 
old  friends.  I  was  on  my  way  to  my  lawyers,  as  I 
said,  when  I  met  you,  and,  after  attending  to  a  little 
matter  of  business,  I  was  coming  right  up  to  your 
office  to  see  you.  I  looked  up  your  address  in  the 
telephone  book." 

Donald,  who  by  this  time  had  succeeded  in  digest- 
ing this  remarkable  piece  of  news,  reached  across  the 
table  and  took  his  friend's  hand.  "  Billy,"  he  said, 
with  a  look  which  left  no  doubt  as  to  the  sincerity  of 
his  feelings,  "  congratulations  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart." 


34  THE  BRUTE 

"  Thanks,  old  man.  I  knew  you  would  be  glad  to 
know  about  my  good  luck."  He  attacked  the  chop, 
which  the  waiter  set  before  him  with  a  flourish. 
"  And  now  tell  me  about  yourself.  How's  your  wife, 
and  the  boy  —  it  was  a  boy,  wasn't  it  ?  The  happy 
event  occurred  just  before  I  went  West,  and  I'm  not 
exactly  sure."  He  flashed  on  Rogers  one  of  those 
brilliant  smiles  which  had  always  made  him  loved  by 
both  sexes,  and  particularly  the  one  in  petticoats. 

"  Edith  is  very  well,  and  the  boy  is  fine.  I  don't 
wonder  you  did  not  remember.  They  will  be  de- 
lighted to  see  you.  Why  not  come  up  to  dinner  to- 
night. We  can't  offer  you  a  feast,  but  you  won't 
mind  taking  pot  luck." 

"  Well,  I  should  say  not.  I  was  hoping  you  would 
ask  me.  You  can't  imagine  how  lost  I  feel  in  this 
town.  I  suppose  it  would  be  different  if  I  had  any 
family,  but  you  know  I  haven't  even  a  second  cousin 
I  can  call  my  own.  I've  often  thought  of  you  and 
Edith.  You  know  that  she  might  have  been  Mrs. 
West,  once,  years  ago,  if  you  hadn't  stepped  in  and 
taken  her  away  from  me.  I'd  have  been  jealous  of 
anyone  but  you,  Don,  but  I  guess  the  best  man  won." 
He  laughed  with  a  hearty  frankness,  and  took  up  his 


THE  BRUTE  35 

mug  of  ale.     "  Here's  to  the  youngster.     May  he 
live  long  and  prosper." 

Donald  drained  his  glass.  "  I  suppose  you  will 
be  busy  for  a  couple  of  hours,"  he  said,  "  with  your 
legal  matters.  Why  not  come  up  to  my  office  when 
you  get  through  —  I'm  in  the  Columbia  Building, 
you  know  —  and  we'll  go  up  town  together  ?  " 

"  I'll  do  it.  We  can  stop  at  my  hotel  on  the  way, 
and  give  me  a  chance  to  clean  up  a  bit.  I  only  got 
in  this  morning  on  the  sleeper,  you  know,  and  I  feel 
a  bit  grubby." 

Some  half-hour  later  they  were  making  their  way 
slowly  toward  Broadway.  "  What  a  great  town  it 
is,  after  all ! "  remarked  West,  as  they  turned  the 
corner  at  John  Street.  "  Every  time  a  fellow  goes 
away  for  a  few  years  they  seem  to  build  it  all  over 
again  before  he  gets  back."  He  turned  to  look  at 
the  towering  mass  of  the  Singer  Building.  "  That's 
a  new  one  on  me.  Wouldn't  it  make  some  of  my 
friends  back  in  Colorado  have  cricks  in  their  backs  ?  " 

"  It  is  a  wonderful  city,"  replied  Rogers  grimly. 
"  I  don't  think  I  should  ever  care  about  living  any- 
where else,  but  the  man  who  wins  out  in  it  has  got  to 
deliver  the  goods.  Big  as  it  is,  there  is  no  room  in 


36  THE  BRUTE 

it  for  failures."  He  waved  his  hand  to  West  as  the 
latter  turned  into  Wall  Street.  "  Sec  you  around 
four-thirty.  So  long." 

"  I'll  be  there.  Wait  for  me  if  I'm  a  little  late," 
was  the  reply,  as  the  two  separated. 

Donald  went  back  to  his  plain  little  office  and  his 
power-transmission  problem  with  a  curious  feeling 
of  futility.  Thirteen  years  of  hard  work  had  given 
him  but  little  more  than  the  right  to  fight  that  never 
ceasing  battle  with  the  grim  city  which  could  excuse 
anything  but  failure.  West  —  pleasure-loving  Billy 
West  —  who  from  his  freshman  days  had  looked  upon 
the  world  as  little  more  than  an  amazing  joke,  had 
by  one  stroke  of  fortune  suddenly  found  all  the 
pleasures,  all  the  luxuries  that  life  contained,  at  his 
feet.  He  did  not  envy  West  this  good  fortune,  he 
was  too  staunch  a  friend  for  that,  but  he  thought  of 
Edith,  and  their  little  up-town  flat,  and  as  her  tired 
face  rose  before  him  he  suffered  the  pangs  of  that 
greatest  of  all  forms  of  poverty,  the  inability  to  do 
for  those  we  love. 


CHAPTER  III 

DURING  the  year  that  preceded  her  mar- 
riage to  Donald  Rogers,  Edith  had  seen  a 
great  deal  of  Billy  West,  and  had  liked  him  more 
than  anyone  except  herself  had  realized.  His  was 
a  personality,  indeed,  to  compel  the  admiration  of 
women.  Tall,  good-looking,  of  a  reckless  and  laugh- 
ter-loving type,  he  naturally  appealed  to  that  pe- 
culiar chord  in  the  feminine  make-up  which  responds 
so  readily  to  the  Cavalier  in  the  opposite  sex,  while 
paying  scant  attention  to  the  sturdy  adherence  to 
duty  characteristic  of  his  Roundhead  adversary. 
For  this  reason,  it  is  probable  that,  at  one  period  of 
Donald's  courtship,  she  would  have  listened  more 
kindly  to  the  love-making  of  his  friend,  had  the  lat- 
ter, indeed,  seen  fit  to  make  any.  That  he  did  not 
was  due  to  no  Quixotic  sense  of  friendship  for 
Donald,  but  to  a  very  real  and  honest  belief  on  his 
part  that  marriage  on  the  slender  pay  of  an  assistant 

chemist  was  not  for  one  of  his  type,  an  opinion  in 

37 


38  THE  BRUTE 

which  he  was  entirely  correct.  Therefore  he  had 
hidden  his  love,  which  was  in  truth  a  real  and  lasting 
one,  beneath  his  careless  Jaughter,  and  had  gone  to 
Colorado  when  the  occasion  offered,  neither  heart 
whole  nor  fancy  free,  but  just  as  determined  to  make 
much  money  with  the  utrnost  quickness  as  though 
he  and  Edith  Pope  had  never  laid  eyes  upon  each 
other.  After  all,  he  and  Edith  were  very  much 
alike.  They  belonged  to  that  class  which  demands 
of  life  its  luxuries  almost  before  its  necessities,  and 
it  is  a  curious  fact  that  they  nearly  always  get  them. 
After  eight  years  of  married  life,  Edith  Rogers, 
busy  with  her  child,  her  household  cares  and  the 
various  complexities  of  domesticity,  had  forgotten 
her  husband's  friend  as  completely  as  though  he  had 
never  come  into  her  life  at  all.  He,  on  the  contrary, 
had  thought  of  her  continually,  for  his  life  in  the 
West  had  been  too  keenly  devoted  to  business  to  leave 
either  time  or  opportunity  for  dalliance  with  the 
opposite  sex.  Hence  the  memory  of  his  first  and 
last  love  had  not  been  effaced  by  the  passage  of 
time,  but  remained  in  his  heart  as  a  sweet  and  pleas- 
ing memory,  gathering  increased  strength  from  the 
years  as  they  rolled  swiftly  by.  It  should  not  be 


THE  BRUTE  39 

inferred  from  this,  however,  that  William  West  had 
the  slightest  thought  of  ever  renewing  his  courtship 
of  Edith,  now  that  she  had  become  Donald  Rogers' 
wife.  His  love  for  her  was  like  a  pleasant  recollec- 
tion, a  package  of  old  letters,  a  book  read  and 
closed  forever.  For  all  that,  he  was  conscious  of 
a  queer  feeling  in  the  region  of  his  heart  as  he  fol- 
lowed Donald  into  the  tiny  living-room  of  the  Rogers' 
apartment  in  Harlem. 

Mrs.  Rogers  had  not  been  apprised  of  her  hus- 
band's intention  to  bring  a  guest  home  for  dinner, 
least  of  all  so  unexpected  a  one  as  Billy  West.  The 
reason  for  this  was  that  the  Rogers'  apartment 
boasted  no  telephone.  The  servant  problem  they 
had  solved  by  the  simple  expedient  of  not  keeping 
any.  Hence  it  was  that  West's  first  glimpse  of  the 
Edith  of  his  dreams  was  of  a  tired  little  woman, 
flushed  from  her  efforts  over  the  gas  range,  and  in 
no  sweet  temper  with  her  husband  for  having  taken 
her  unawares  and  at  such  a!  disadvantage.  It  is 
a  fact  worthy  of  record,  however,  that  West  found 
her,  in  this  homely  garb,  more  humanly  delightful 
and  attractive  than  would  have  been  the  case  had  she 
spent  hours  of  preparation  at  her  toilette  table.  He 


40  THE  BRUTE 

had  been  living  for  five  years  among  men  who  found 
women  more  attractive  as  helpmates  than  as  orna- 
ments, and  she  appealed  to  him  accordingly.  As 
for  Donald,  no  thought  crossed  his  mind  that  these 
two  were,  or  ever  had  been,  anything  more  to  each 
other  than  the  best  of  friends. 

"  Billy ! "  Mrs.  Rogers  had  gasped  as  she  came 
into  the  room  to  greet  her  husband  on  his  arrival, 
and  had  thus,  by  using  the  old  familiar  title,  estab- 
lished a  footing  between  them  that  somehow  refused 
to  return  to  the  more  formal  one  of  "  Mrs.  Rogers  " 
and  "  Mr.  West."  After  all  it  was  of  no  great  im- 
portance —  Billy  and  Edith  they  had  always  been 
to  each  other,  and  Billy  and  Edith  they  remained. 
Donald,  if  he  noticed  it  at  all,  was  glad  of  the  fact 
that  his  wife  and  his  old  friend  liked  each  other  so 
well.  The  meeting  became  a  little  reunion,  in  the 
pleasure  of  which  Mrs.  Rogers  soon  forgot  her  plain, 
cheap  house-gown  and  her  flushed  face,  and  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion  with  an  unwonted 
gayety.  She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  in  spite  of  her 
twenty-eight  years;  perhaps  it  would  be  more  cor^ 
rect  to  say  because  of  them,  for  while  at  twenty  she 
had  been  exceedingly  pretty,  it  was  little  more  than 


THE  BRUTE  41 

a  youthful  promise  of  what   she  had  now  become. 

Her  grandmother  had  been  a  Southern  woman, 
and  a  noted  beauty  in  those  much  talked  of  days  "  be- 
fore the  war,"  and  whether  this  lady's  beauty  had, 
as  time  passed,  taken  on  added  glory,  like  most 
other  things  of  that  hallowed  period,  certain  it  is 
that  Edith  Rogers  had  received  from  some  source 
a  priceless  inheritance  as  far  as  the  perfection  of 
her  figure  or  the  beauty  of  her  coloring  was  con- 
cerned. Perhaps  it  was  some  forgotten  strain  of 
Irish  blood  that  was  responsible  for  her  deep  violet 
eyes  and  her  dark  chestnut  hair,  although  her  dusky 
complexion  belied  it. 

West  observed  the  change  which  the  years  had 
made  in  her,  at  once,  and  complimented  her  on  it. 
"  I  have  never  seen  you  look  so  well,"  he  said,  as  he 
grasped  her  hand.  "  You  were  a  rosebud  when  I 
went  away,  now  you  are  an  American  beauty."  It 
pleased  her  mightily,  for  she  felt  that  he  meant  it, 
and,  like  most  married  women,  she  heard  few  com- 
pliments from  her  husband.  Mrs.  Pope,  her  mother, 
never  lost  an  opportunity  to  tell  her  that  with  her 
looks  she  could  have  married  any  man  she  pleased, 
but  she  paid  no  attention  to  remarks  of  this  nature, 


42  THE  BRUTE 

knowing  as  she  did  that  her  mother  was  only  trying 
to  hit,  indirectly,  at  Donald,  whom  she  affected  not 
to  like. 

She  knew  from  West's  voice  that  he  was  very  glad 
to  see  her,  and  after  all  these  years,  when  he  grasped 
her  hand,  and  pressed  it  in  his  strong,  firm  grip, 
she  felt  the  old  familiar  shock,  the  sensation  of  glad- 
ness for  she  knew  not  what,  that  almost  took  her 
breath  away.  It  had  always  been  that  way  with 
him.  He  was  very  different  from  Donald  in  many 
ways,  for,  while  Donald  was  serious  and  earnest  and 
very  conscientious,  West  was  always  merry  and  gay 
and  careless,  never  seeming  to  worry  about  money, 
although  his  income,  at  the  time  of  her  marriage,  had 
been  smaller  even  than  Donald's. 

There  was  something  about  him  that  always  at- 
tracted women.  She  felt  this  whenever  she  was  with 
him,  yet  it  did  not  come  from  any  appreciation 
of  his  character,  or  his  mind,  for  she  knew  very  lit- 
tle about  either.  There  was  some  sort  of  psychic 
magnetism  about  the  man,  some  vibrating  sense  of 
physical  vitality,  which  she  felt  whenever  she  was 
near  him.  His  mere  presence  made  her  strangely 
silent  and  in  a  way  afraid,  yet,  whatever  it  was 


THE  BRUTE  4$ 

that  she  feared,  it  at  the  same  time  attracted 
her,  and  made  her  sorry  when  it  had  passed.  She 
had  never  felt  that  way  with  Donald,  although  al- 
ways she  had  liked  to  be  with  him,  for  somehow  she 
felt  more  comfortable  and  sure,  and  could  talk  things 
over  better,  and  plan  out  the  future.  She  had  not 
thought  much  about  the  future  when  she  was  with 
West  —  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any  need  for  a 
future  —  the  present  had  been  all  she  had  desired, 
but  that  she  had  desired  very  much.  All  this  had 
passed,  years  ago,  but  still  it  came  back  to  her,  in  a 
measure,  when  she  thus  first  met  him  again. 

He  looked  at  her,  in  that  curiously  intimate  way 
he  had,  and  even  his  smile  made  her  happy.  She  felt 
his  glance  sweep  over  her  face,  her  whole  body,  and 
almost  embrace  her  in  its  pleasant  radiance  —  it 
thrilled  her,  yet  she  almost  resented  the  way  in  which 
it  left  her  helpless  and  confused.  In  a  moment  he 
had  looked  beyond  her,  at  Donald,  and  was  making 
some  laughing  inquiry  about  their  boy  —  and  then 
she  felt  sorry  and  wanted  him  to  look  at  her  again. 

Mrs.  Pope  had  taught  her  daughters  many  things, 
but  cooking  was  not  one  of  them.  Edith  had  been 
forced,  like  many  another  married  woman,  to  learn 


44  THE  BRUTE 

it  in  the  school  of  hard  practical  experience,  and,  to 
her  credit  be  it  said,  she  had  learned  it  surprisingly 
well.  She  excused  herself  after  the  first  greetings 
had  been  said,  added  an  extra  dish  to  the  partially 
prepared  meal,  and  hastened  to  her  room  to  change 
her  dress.  Of  West's  new  fortunes  she  as  yet  knew 
nothing;  it  was  to  the  man  that  she  wanted  to  ap- 
peal, to  the  old  friend,  before  whom  her  natural 
woman's  vanity  made  her  wish  to  appear  at  her  best. 
When  she  served  the  dinner  half  an  hour  later,  it 
was  in  a  light-green  pongee  that  seemed  to  West 
a  triumph  of  the  dressmaker's  art.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  she  had  made  the  dress  herself,  but  it  would 
have  taken  a  far  worse  costume  to  have  spoiled  the 
lines  of  her  superb  figure,  or  dulled  the  sparkling 
mobility  of  her  face. 

Donald,  with  a  father's  pride  in  his  boy,  dug  out 
Bobbie  from  the  recesses  of  his  mother's  room,  and 
.brought  him  to  West  to  be  admired.  He  was  a 
manly  little  fellow,  with  a  large  share  of  his  mother's 
good  looks,  and  West  took  him  upon  his  knee,  won- 
dering inwardly  if  he  would  ever  have  a  son  of  his 
own  to  inherit  his  newly  acquired  fortune. 

To  the  boy  he  told  stories  about  the  Indians  that 


THE  BRUTE  45 

made  the  youngster  open  his  eyes  very  wide  indeed, 
and  Uncle  Billy,  as  West  admonished  him  to  call 
him,  became  at  once  a  very  important  personage  in 
his  childish  eyes. 

It  was  when  dinner  had  progressed  to  the  stage 
of  the  salad  that  Donald  mentioned  the  matter  of 
West's  sudden  rise  to  fortune.  "  Billy  had  made  a 
ten-strike  in  the  West,"  he  remarked  to  his  wife. 
"  Discovered  a  gold  mine." 

"Really!"  Edith  laughed.  "Is  there  any  gold 
in  it?  Almost  all  the  gold  mines  I  ever  heard  of 
were  lacking  in  that  important  particular." 

"  This  one  wasn't."  Donald  looked  at  West  and 
laughed.  "  Billy  tells  me  it's  made  him  worth  half  a 
million." 

Mrs.  Rogers  gasped,  then  turned  to  her  guest. 
"  You  are  not  in  earnest  ?  "  she  inquired  wonderingly. 
"Half  a  million?" 

"  About  that,"  said  West,  trying  to  look  as  if  he 
were  speaking  of  the  price  of  a  new  hat,  or  some- 
thing equally  unimportant. 

"  But  you  —  you  don't  seem  a  bit  excited  about 
it,  or  anything."  Mrs.  Rogers'  own  eyes  were  big 
with  interest.  "  I  should  think  you  would  be  simply 


46  THE  BRUTE 

overcome.  I  know  I  should.  Half  a  million !  "  She 
glanced  unconsciously  about  the  poorly  furnished 
little  room  and  sighed.  Donald  noticed  it;  her 
thoughts,  for  the  moment,  had  been  his  own. 

"  I  was  excited  enough  when  I  found  it,"  remarked 
West  with  a  chuckle.     "  It  came  like  a  snowstorm  in 
August.     Last  thing  in  the  world  I  had  expected  — 
at  least  just  then." 

"  I  suppose  you  just  stood  up  and  shouted,"  said 
his  hostess. 

"  No,  I  didn't.  I  lit  my  pipe.  I  didn't  want  the 
rest  of  the  bunch  to  know  about  it." 

"  Tell  us  the  whole  story."  She  was  as  interested 
as  a  child.  Half  a  million  dollars  sounded  like  such 
a  vast  amount  of  money.  All  her  life  she  had  imag- 
ined what  she  would  do  if  she  were  only  rich.  She 
had  often  thought  it  all  out,  in  her  day  dreams  — 
how  she  would  give  her  mother  so  much  for  the  trip 
to  Europe  that  she  was  always  talking  about,  and 
her  sister  so  much  more  for  the  diamond  necklace 
she  wanted,  and  have  an  automobile  and  a  place  at 
the  seashore  and  many  other  things.  She  had  an 
exalted  opinion  of  wealth  and  its  possibilities ;  if  she 
had  known  any  wealthy  people  she  would  probably 


THE  BRUTE  47 

have  found  them  very  much  like  everyone  else,  com- 
plaining about  the  price  of  beef,  and  the  difficulty  of 
keeping  one's  servants  and  paying  one's  bills.  She 
believed  that  it  was  not  what  one  has,  but  what  one 
has  not,  that  counts.  The  sound  of  West's  voice  in- 
terrupted her  thoughts. 

"  There  isn't  much  to  tell.  I  was  on  my  vacation 
at  the  time,  and  there  were  about  a  dozen  of  us, 
camping  up  on  the  Little  Ash  river.  There  hadn't 
been  any  gold  found  in  that  section,  before  that,  but 
I  was  always  looking  out  for  it  —  you  see  I  had 
studied  the  formation  up  that  way  the  summer  be- 
fore, and  I  was  certain  the  rock  was  there.  The 
boys  used  to  make  a  good  deal  of  fun  of  me,  poking 
about  with  my  geologist's  hammer,  instead  of  fish- 
ing or  the  like.  It  was  the  last  day  of  our  stay,  I 
remember,  and  we  had  already  begun  to  get  our 
things  together,  in  readiness  to  break  camp  in  the 
morning.  I  had  strolled  up  the  river  a  few  hundred 
yards,  feeling  a  little  disappointed  at  going  back  to 
Denver  without  even  a  piece  of  iron  pyrites,  when 
I  noticed  a  sort  of  whitish  streak  in  the  rocky  bank 
just  a  little  above  where  it  rose  from  the  edge  of  the 
river.  It  was  mostly  covered  with  underbrush  and 


48  THE  BRUTE 

thick  bushes,  and  I  wonder  that  I  saw  it  at  all.  I 
climbed  down  and  took  a  good  look,  and  then  I  just 
sat  down  on  a  rock  and  got  out  my  pipe  and  had  a 
good  smoke.  I  felt  somehow  as  though  a  new  life 
had  begun  for  me,  and  I  wanted  time  to  think  things 
out.  After  a  while  I  broke  off  a  few  samples  of  the 
quartz  —  it  was  a  beautiful  outcropping,  with  a  pay 
streak  in  it  as  thick  as  your  two  fingers  —  and  I 
stowed  them  away  in  my  pocket  and  strolled  back  to 
camp  as  though  nothing  had  happened.  One  of  the 
boys  said,  as  I  came  up,  '  Find  your  gold  mine 
yet?'  and  laughed.  'Yes,'  I  said,  'and  it's  worth 
a  million.'  They  all  laughed,  for  they  thought  I 
was  joking,  but  I  felt  my  bits  of  quartz  in  my  pocket 
and  said  nothing.  We  got  back  to  town  the  next 
afternoon  and  I  had  made  my  assays  before  I  turned 
in  that  night." 

"  And  then  you  knew  ?  "  she  asked  eagerly. 

"  Yes.  I  staked  out  my  claim  very  quietly.  Of 
course  I  gave  up  my  position  the  next  day.  After 
I  had  had  the  claim  registered,  I  went  to  see  a  man 
in  Denver  that  I  had  come  to  know  pretty  well  —  he 
was  the  representative  of  a  wealthy  crowd  in  Boston 
who  dealt  extensively  in  mining  properties,  and  I 


THE  BRUTE  49 

told  him  what  I  had.  I  won't  bother  you  with  the 
details.  We  formed  a  company,  and  they  gave  me 
half  of  the  stock  and  made  me  vice-president,  and 
then  we  started  in  to  work  the  claim.  In  six  months 
we  had  got  in  our  stamping  mills  and  were  taking 
out  ore.  The  rock  got  better,  as  we  went  into  the 
hill,  and  we  began  to  pay  dividends  almost  from  the 
start.  There  isn't  any  of  our  stock  for  sale  now. 
I  don't  have  much  of  anything  to  do  with  the  man- 
agement. It's  in  good  hands,  and  last  month,  when 
I  saw  that  everything  was  working  smoothly,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  come  East,  and  look  up  some  of  my 
old  friends."  He  glanced  at  Donald  as  he  said  this, 
and  then  at  Edith,  and  she  felt  somehow,  that  he 
wanted  her  to  feel  that  it  was  she  that  he  meant. 

She  began  to  see,  that  very  evening,  something  of 
what  it  meant  to  have  so  much  money  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  tliink  about  how  one  spent  it.  When 
West  suggested,  after  dinner,  that  they  all  go  to  the 
theater,  she  said  at  once  that  it  was  too  late  —  that 
they  would  never  be  able  to  get  tickets  at  that  hour. 
It  was  then  close  to  eight  o'clock,  but  West  laughed, 
and  said  he  would  see  to  the  tickets,  so  she  put  on 
her  hat  and  they  went. 


50  THE  BRUTE 

When  Donald  and  she  went  to  the  theater, 
which  was  not  very  often,  they  used  to  think  about  it 
for  days  ahead  and  were  delighted  if  they  were  able 
to  get  good  seats  in  the  balcony  at  less  than  the 
prices  charged  downstairs. 

Their  evening  was  a  delightful  one.  They 
whirled  downtown  to  the  theater  in  a  taxicab,  and 
went  to  supper  afterwards  at  one  of  the  best-known 
restaurants,  where  Edith  wondered  how  the  count- 
less array  of  young  and  very  beautiful  women  man- 
aged to  get  such  gorgeous  gowns  and  such  magnifi- 
cent jewelry.  She  and  Donald  did  not  often  patron- 
ize such  places. 

They  came  home  in  a  whirl  of  excitement,  and 
Edith  lay  awake  a  long  time  after  she  had  gone  to 
bed,  wondering  if  after  all  her  mother  had  not  been 
right  in  urging  her  to  marry  for  money.  She 
looked  at  Donald,  who  lay  at  her  side,  and  thought 
long,  long  thoughts.  She  was  not  conscious  of  any 
disloyalty  to  him  —  she  liked  Donald  very  much 
—  he  seemed  almost  like  a  dear  friend.  Pres- 
ently she  began  to  try  to  analyze  her  love  for  him, 
her  marriage,  and  her  after  life.  She  respected  and 
admired  his  mind,  his  character,  but  was  there  not, 


THE  BRUTE  51 

after  all,  something  else  in  life  —  something  deeper 
and  more  vital  in  the  marriage  relationship,  some- 
thing that  she  had  missed?  Why  was  it  that  Don- 
ald's presence,  his  touch,  his  look  even,  gave  her  no 
such  glow  of  happiness  as  she  had  suddenly  found 
with  this  man  who  had  been  a  stranger  to  her  for  so 
many  years?  It  was  wrong,  she  knew,  but  clearly 
there  was  something  lacking.  Bobbie,  waking  fret- 
fully, brought  her  to  a  sudden  sense  of  the  realities 
of  life.  She  got  up  and  placed  an  extra  cover  over 
him,  and  when  she  had  once  more  succeeded  in  put- 
ting him  to  sleep  her  questions  seemed  for  the  time 
being  answered. 


CHAPTER  IV 

WEST  spent  the  next  few  days  in  getting 
comfortably  located  in  New  York,  laying  in 
a  supply  of  new  clothes,  and  purchasing  an  automo- 
bile. His  life  in  Colorado  had  been  unusually  sim- 
ple, since,  with  his  time  almost  entirely  given  over 
to  business  affairs,  he  had  had  neither  inclination 
nor  opportunity  for  amusement.  Now,  however,  he 
felt  himself  on  a  holiday.  His  bank  account  was 
bulging  with  unspent  income,  and  he  frankly  admit- 
ted to  himself  that  he  had  come  to  New  York  to 
spend  it.  Edith,  who  seemed  almost  continually  in 
his  mind,  provided  the  necessary  outlet,  and  he  pic- 
tured the  two  of  them  making  many  delightful  ex- 
cursions into  the  country  about  New  York  in  the  big 
touring  car  which  he  had  selected. 

During  his  visits  to  tailors,  bootmakers,  haber- 
dashers, and  the  like,  he  found  time  to  send  her  a 
huge  box  of  violets  on  two  different  occasions,  and, 

with  a  vague  idea  of  salving  his  conscience,  hunted 

63 


THE  BRUTE  53 

up   Donald    one    day    and    took   him    to    luncheon. 

It  was  nearly  a  week  after  his  first  visit  to  the 
Rogers'  apartment  that  he  suddenly  made  up  his 
mind  to  call,  and,  as  luck  would  have  it,  Donald  was 
not  at  home  on  that  particular  evening,  having  gone 
to  a  meeting  of  one  of  the  engineering  societies  of 
which  he  was  a  member.  The  absence  of  a  telephone 
brought  West  before  the  Rogers'  door  without  any 
previous  knowledge  of  his  friend's  absence.  Edith, 
who  was  sitting  alone,  reading  a  magazine,  and,  to  tell 
the  truth,  thinking  of  West  himself  and  wondering 
what  had  become  of  him,  received  her  caller  with  un- 
feigned gladness  and  insisted  upon  his  remaining  un- 
til Donald's  return,  which,  she  assured  him,  would  not 
be  late.  Between  spending  the  evening  alone  at  his 
hotel,  and  here  with  the  woman  he  had  half-begun 
to  believe  was  dearer  to  him,  in  spite  of  the  lapse  of 
years,  than  anyone  else  in  the  world,  there  was  no 
choice.  West  came  in  and  sat  down,  delighted  at  the 
opportunity  which  fate  had  thus  generously  ac- 
corded him. 

They  talked  along  conventional  lines  for  a  time, 
West  entertaining  her  with  an  account  of  his  experi- 
ences during  the  past  week,  and  dilating  upon  the 


54  THE  BRUTE 

merits  of  his  new  automobile,  which  he  insisted  she 
must  try  at  once.  Edith  was  delighted  at  the  pros- 
pect —  he  told  her  that  he  was  taking  lessons  in 
driving,  and  would  soon  be  able  to  manage  it  with 
the  best  of  them. 

After  a  time,  the  topic  having  been  exhausted,  a 
silence  came  upon  them,  one  of  those  portentous  in- 
tervals that  form  a  prelude  to  the  expression  of  the 
unspoken  thought,  the  unbidden  wish. 

Edith  was  more  than  ever  conscious  of  some  power- 
erful  attraction  in  this  man;  he  seemed  to  represent 
vast  possibilities  —  possibilities  for  future  happiness 
—  of  what  nature  she  did  not  dare  even  to  ask  her- 
self. She  felt,  whenever  she  was  with  him,  a  strange 
confidence  in  the  outcome  of  things;  although  what 
things  she  did  not  know.  "  I  should  be  so  glad  to 
go,"  she  had  said,  in  reply  to  his  suggestion  regard- 
ing the  proposed  automobile  trips.  "  I  am  alone  so 
much ! "  There  had  been  a  touch  of  sadness  in  her 
voice  that  did  not  escape  him.  He  looked  at  her 
keenly.  "  Are  you  happy,  Edith  ?  "  he  asked  with 
directness  which  startled  her. 

"  Why  —  yes  —  of  course  I  am.  I  hope  you  do 
not  think  that  I  was  complaining.  I  only  meant  that 


THE  BRUTE  55 

I  am  a  good  deal  alone  during  the  day,  and  — 
and — "  She  hesitated.  He  knew  quite  well  that 
she  was  not  happy  —  or,  at  least,  that  she  found  her 
life  far  more  empty  than  she  had  ever  dreamed  it 
would  be  when  she  married. 

" —  And  you  will  take  pity  on  a  lonely  bachelor," 
he  completed  her  sentence  for  her.  "  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  haven't  anyone  else  to  go  about  with,  you 
know." 

"  And  so  you  fall  back  on  me.  You're  not  very 
complimentary,  Billy.  I'll  have  to  find  someone  to 
help  you  spend  your  money."  She  laughed,  watch- 
ing him  narrowly  as  she  spoke.  After  her  eight 
years  of  married  life,  the  subtle  flattery  of  this  man's 
attentions  seemed  doubly  sweet,  and,  woman-like,  she 
wanted  to  hold  on  to  them,  and  enjoy  them,  as  long 
as  she  could. 

"  I  don't  think  I'd  care  about  any  young  girl," 
he  remarked  gravely.  "  You  know  I  always  liked 
you  better  than  anyone  else,  Edith,  and  I'm  glad  to 
say  I  still  do." 

"  In  spite  of  my  gray  hairs,"  she  laughed.  She 
had  none,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  being  especially  youth- 
ful in  appearance  for  a  woman  of  nearly  thirty,  but 


56  THE  BRUTE 

she  longed  for  the  compliment  she  felt  sure  her  re- 
mark would  elicit. 

"  In  spite  of  everything,"  he  declared.  "  I  have 
never  forgiven  Donald  for  cutting  in  and  marrying 
you  while  I  was  away  trying  to  make  a  fortune  to 
lay  at  your  feet."  He  spoke  banteringly,  with  a 
laugh,  but  something  in  his  voice  told  her  that  he 
was  far  more  in  earnest  than  his  manner  indicated. 
"  Now  that  I  have  made  it,  I  am  determined  that 
you  shall  have  some  pleasure  out  of  it." 

"  That's  very  sweet  of  you,  Billy,"  she  said,  with 
a  touch  of  gravity  in  her  manner.  "  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  much  I  appreciate  it." 

"  Nonsense.  Think  what  old  friends  we  are.  If 
you  will  take  pity  on  my  loneliness,  and  all  that,  I 
shall  feel  that  I  am  the  one  who  should  be  grateful." 
He  rose  from  his  chair  and  came  over  to  where  she 
sat,  near  the  desk.  "  Do  you  know,  Edith,"  he  said 
suddenly,  "  that  in  all  the  time  I  have  been  away  I 
don't  suppose  a  single  day  went  by  that  I  did  not 
think  of  you  ?  " 

"  Don't  tell  me  that,  Billy.  If  you  thought  of  me 
once  in  six  months  you  did  well."  Her  nervous 
laugh,  as  she  attempted  to  meet  his  gaze,  sounded 


THE  BRUTE  57 

unconvincing.  She  almost  began  to  believe  that  he 
had  thought  of  her  every  day. 

"  Do  you  remember  that  picture  you  once  gave  me 
1 —  the  one  in  the  big  Leghorn  hat  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  answered  slowly. 

"  I've  had  it  on  my  dresser  always,  wherever  I've 
been  —  it  was  the  last  thing  I  looked  at  when  I  went 
to  bed  at  night.  So,  you  see,  I  did  think  of  you  every 
day  —  honestly." 

She  felt  her  color  coming  —  something  in  his 
manner,  as  he  stood  there  gazing  down  at  her, 
alarmed  her.  She  felt  that  he  still  loved  her,  and 
that  it  would  be  only  a  question  of  time  until  he 
should  tell  her  so.  She  was  by  no  means  prepared 
for  any  such  rupture  in  their  friendly  relations,  for 
rupture  she  knew  it  would  certainly  be,  should  he 
speak.  She  rose  hastily  and  went  toward  the  piano. 

"  Shall  I  play  for  you  ?  "  she  asked.  In  the  past 
it  had  been  his  invariable  habit  to  ask  her  to  do  so. 

"  Will  you  ?  "  His  voice  showed  his  appreciation 
of  the  fact  that  she  had  remembered. 

"What  would  you  like?" 

"  Oh,  anything  —  it's  been  so  long  since  I've  heard 
any  good  music !  "  He  j  oined  her  at  the  piano. 


58  THE  BRUTE 

"  How  about  that  beautiful  thing  you  used  to  sing 
sometimes  —  Massenet's  *  Elegy,'  wasn't  it?  Don't 
you  remember  I  always  said  I'd  rather  hear  you  sing 
that  than  listen  to  a  grand  opera?  " 

"  Oh  —  I  couldn't.     I  haven't  sung  for  years." 
"  What  a  pity !     I  shouldn't  think  Donald  would 
let  you  give  it  up." 

"  Donald  doesn't  care  much  for  music."  She  felt 
as  she  spoke  that  she  had  in  some  way  criticized  her 
husband  and  hastened  to  make  amends.  "  He's  too 
busy  —  that's  the  reason.  Donald  is  working  very 
hard,  and  has  to  do  a  lot  of  work  at  home  —  nights. 
If  I  sang,  it  would  bother  him."  She  began  to  play 
the  piece  with  considerable  feeling  and  skill,  and 
West,  who  was  intensely  fond  of  music,  leaned  over 
the  piano  and  watched  her  happily.  To  have  this 
woman  all  to  himself  seemed  to  him  the  only  thing 
that  fortune  had  denied  him.  The  love  which  had 
lain  so  quiet  all  these  years  surged  up  within  him 
with  unsuspected  force.  His  arms  longed  to  draw 
her  to  him,  to  clasp  her  to  his  heart.  He  looked  at 
her  expressive,  delicate  face,  her  round,  smooth  neck, 
her  dark,  heavy  hair,  and  wondered  how  Donald 
could  bring  himself  to  think  that  she  could  possibly 


THE  BRUTE  59 

be  happy  in  the  position  of  a  mere  household  drudge. 
His  reflections  did  Donald  scant  justice;  the  latter, 
poor  fellow,  was  trying  with  all  his  strength  to  lift 
both  Edith  and  himself  out  of  their  present  environ- 
ment, but  Donald  was  a  silent  man,  who  endured  all 
things  patiently,  and  he  expected  his  wife  to  do  the 
same. 

West's  intentions,  if,  indeed,  he  admitted  to  him- 
self that  he  had  any  at  this  time,  were  directed 
toward  two  ends  —  his  own  amusement  and  Edith's. 
Perhaps  amusement  is  not  the  exact  word  —  it  was 
more  than  that  to  him,  for  he  could  have  amused 
himself  with  many  women.  He  was  really  very  fond 
of  Edith,  more  so,  perhaps,  than  he  himself  fully 
realized,  and  in  giving  her  pleasure  he  gave  himself 
pleasure  as  well.  The  idea  of  making  love  to  her, 
of  coming  in  any  way  between  herself  and  Donald, 
had  never  entered  his  mind.  After  all,  we  so  rarely 
erect  barriers  against  certain  experiences  in  life  un- 
til after  they  have  occurred,  by  which  time  barriers 
are  no  longer  of  any  avail. 

When  Edith  stopped  playing,  West  begged  her  to 
go  on,  and  presently,  running  into  the  accompani- 
ment of  "  Oh,  Promise  Me,"  she  began  to  sing  in  a 


60  THE  BRUTE 

clear,  sweet  voice  which  brought  back  to  him  the 
evenings,  long  before,  when  she  had  sung  this  song 
to  him.  Unconsciously  the  years  passed  from  them 
—  he  joined  in  the  chorus  of  the  song  with  his  un- 
cultivated, yet  not  unmusical,  baritone,  and  once 
more  they  seemed  back  in  the  boarding-house  parlor, 
she  the  young  girl  with  life  all  before  her,  and  he  the 
happy-go-lucky  Billy  West,  making  and  spending 
his  small  salary  with  joyous  indifference  as  to  the 
future. 

He  stayed  until  nearly  half-past  ten,  hoping  that 
Donald  would  return,  but  the  latter  evidently  had 
been  kept  longer  than  he  expected.  Edith  did  not 
press  him  to  remain  —  somehow,  in  spite  of  her  old 
friendship  for  West,  it  seemed  a  bit  queer,  this  sen- 
sation of  being  here  alone  in  her  apartment  with  a 
man  other  than  her  husband.  She  did  not  propose 
to  conceal  the  fact  of  his  having  been  there  from 
Donald,  but  it  seemed  to  her  easier  to  tell  Donald 
that  Billy  had  called  during  his  absence  than  to  have 
him  come  in  and  find  them  together  even  as  inno- 
cently engaged  as  they  were.  She  knew  that  this 
feeling  on  her  part  was  absurd,  that  Donald  would 
not  have  the  least  idea  of  jealousy  or  suspicion  — 


THE  BRUTE  61 

he  was  too  clean  minded  a  man  for  that.  Her  scru- 
ples arose  from  a  deeper  cause.  She  had  begun  to 
think  about  West  in  a  way  that  caused  her  to  feel 
guilty  of  disloyalty  to  her  husband  when  no  dis- 
loyalty had  occurred  —  to  desire  to  avoid  the  ap- 
pearance of  evil  where  no  evil  existed.  All  that  she 
had  done  had  been  to  liken  her  life  with  Donald, 
to  what  it  might  have  been  had  she  married  West. 
It  is  a  curious  fact  that  the  best  of  women  are  will- 
ing at  times  to  compare  the  husband  at  his  worst, 
with  the  lover  at  his  casual  best,  and  judge  both  ac- 
cordingly. 

West  rode  back  to  his  hotel  in  a  maze  of  doubts. 
He  was  genuinely  fond  of  Donald  —  he  liked  him 
better  than  any  man  he  knew,  and  this,  probably,  be- 
cause he  was  in  all  things  so  nearly  the  other's  oppo- 
site. He  wondered  whether  Donald  would  object 
in  any  way  to  the  attentions  he  proposed  showing 
Edith  —  whether  he  would  become  jealous,  and  feel 
that  his  wife's  place  was  at  home,  rather  than  dash- 
ing about  in  a  five-thousand-dollar  automobile  with 
another  man.  Perhaps  it  would  be  but  natural  that 
he  should,  although  not  by  nature  a  jealous  man, 
and  West  realized  the  confidence  that  he  placed 


62  THE  BRUTE 

in  both  his  wife  and  himself.  What  West  did  not 
realize  was  the  effect  which  his  money  and  the  pleas- 
ures and  luxuries  it  could  command  would  have  upon 
this  woman  whose  married  life  had  been  one  long 
lesson  in  economy.  He  had  no  conception  of  the 
contrast  in  Edith's  life  between  a  quiet  existence  in 
a  Harlem  flat  and  the  land  of  dreams  to  which  his 
money  was  the  open  sesame,  the  golden  key,  unlock- 
ing the  barriers  between  poverty  on  the  one  hand 

and  all  that  the  heart  could  desire  on  the  other.     He 

\ 

did  not,  could  not,  realize  the  upheaval  which  would 
necessarily  take  place  in  her  life,  the  dissatisfaction 
which  must  inevitably  ensue,  if  she  were  once  drawn 
into  a  whirl  of  pleasures  and  excitements  to  which 
her  existence  for  so  many  years  had  been  totally 
foreign.  If  she  and  Donald  lunched  or  dined  to- 
gether at  an  expensive  restaurant  it  was  an  event, 
commemorating  some  anniversary  —  such  as  their 
wedding  or  a  birthday.  West,  on  the  contrary,  re- 
garded dropping  into  any  of  the  hotels  or  cafes  for 
luncheon  or  dinner  as  a  most  ordinary  performance 
—  he  was  forced  to  do  it  himself,  and  his  only  desire 
was  for  company.  As  for  going  to  the  theater, 
he  knew  that  the  best  seats  were  always  obtainable 


THE  BRUTE  63 

at  the  hotels,  or  on  the  sidewalk  —  at  a  small  ad- 
vance in  price,  it  is  true.  But  what  difference  did 
that  make  to  a  man  who  had  a  hundred  dollars  a  day 
to  spend  and  no  reason  whatever  for  not  spending 
it? 

Even  before  West's  coming,  the  subtle  poison 
of  dissatisfaction  had  begun  to  eat  its  way  into 
Edith's  heart.  Money  had  always  appeared  to  her 
a  vital  necessity  in  life  —  her  mother  had  taken  care 
of  that  —  but  in  the  flush  of  youthful  enthusiasm  she 
had  believed  that,  with  Donald  at  her  side,  she  could 
endure  comparative  poverty  with  a  light  heart,  un- 
til he  had  made  his  fortune,  as  so  many  another  man 
had  done  before  him.  She  had  not  thought,  how- 
ever, that  the  time  would  be  so  long.  West  came 
into  her  life  at  a  moment  when  she  was  fertile  soil 
for  the  seeds  of  discontent  which  he  so  uncon- 
sciously was  planting  in  her  nature. 

She  greeted  her  husband  with  indifferent  coldness 
upon  his  return,  about  half-past  eleven,  and  told 
him  of  West's  call.  Donald  was  unfeignedly  sorry 
that  he  had  missed  his  friend,  but  showed  no  least 
trace  of  annoyance  on  learning  that  West  and  Edith 
had  spent  the  evening  together.  "  I  hope  he  will 


64  THE  BRUTE 

come  often,"  he  said.  "  We  have  both  been  a  bit 
lonely  of  late.  It  will  do  you  good,  dear,  to  have 
new  interests  in  life.  I  am  only  sorry  that  I  cannot 
do  more  for  you  myself."  He  drew  her  to  him,  and 
kissed  her  tenderly,  but,  somehow,  under  his  caress 
she  shivered  and  grew  cold.  "  Billy  is  a  splendid 
fellow,  and  I  don't  doubt  you  will  be  doing  him  a  real 
kindness  to  help  him  amuse  himself  a  bit  until  he  has 
got  settled  in  town.  It  makes  a  great  difference 
to  a  man,  to  be  away  from  New  York  for  five  years." 
West  had  suggested  to  Edith  that  they  take  a 
trial  trip  in  the  new  automobile  the  following  Fri- 
day, but  of  this  Edith  said  nothing  at  the  time.  It 
was  not  that  she  wished  to  conceal  the  fact,  but  it 
seemed  to  her  pointed,  and  as  though  drawing  es- 
pecial attention  to  an  unimportant  matter,  to  speak 
of  it  at  this  time.  So  she  said  nothing.  After  all, 
she  had  nothing  to  conceal  or  be  ashamed  of.  It  is 
true  that,  in  her  more  introspective  moments,  she 
saw  a  dim  shadow  of  danger  ahead;  but  she  put  it 
resolutely  aside,  and  contented  herself  with  a  soph- 
istry which  has  led  many  another  along  devious 
paths.  "  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  th§  evil  thereof." 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was  early  in  March  that  West  came  to  New 
York,  and  from  then  on  Edith  Rogers  lived 
what  was  to  her  a  new  life.  She  had  persuaded 
Donald  to  let  her  have  a  nurse  for  Bobbie,  a  young 
girl  who  came  in  every  morning,  took  the  child  out 
in  the  park,  amused  him  during  the  day,  and  helped 
with  the  housework.  This  left  her  comparatively 
free  to  spend  a  large  part  of  her  time  with  West. 
Their  automobile  trips  became  a  matter  of  almost 
daily  occurrence. 

Thrown  thus  so  much  together,  these  two  closed 
their  eyes  to  the  danger  which  they  both  knew  was 
impending;  they  walked  gayly  upon  the  edge  of  a 
yawning  chasm  and  refused  to  admit  that  one  false 
step  would  send  them  both  crashing  down  into  an 
abyss  of  chaos  and  destruction.  In  a  few  weeks, 
from  talking  first  of  themselves,  then  of  each  other, 
during  long  days  when  Donald  labored  patiently  in 
his  office  down-town,  it  was  but  a  question  of  time 

when  "  you  "  and  "  me  "  became  "  we,"  and  Edith 

65 


66  THE  BRUTE 

would  have  missed  Billy  West  from  her  life  more 
than  she  would  have  missed  Donald,  because  he  had 
become  more  a  part  of  it.  Like  a  ship  at  anchor, 
with  all  sails  set  and  filled  by  a  strong  and  ever  in- 
creasing gale,  it  was  inevitably  certain  that  before 
long  either  the  anchor  must  give,  or  the  white  sails 
of  her  reputation  be  blown  to  rags  and  tatters  — 
bitter  state,  indeed,  for  a  wife  and  mother ! 

One  of  the  things  about  West  which  appealed  to 
her  most  was  his  ever  ready  sympathy.  Donald, 
made  of  sterner  stuff,  realized  that  sympathy,  over- 
done, weakens  one's  powers  of  resistance,  and  exag- 
gerates one's  burdens.  He  expected  his  wife  to  bear 
what  life  accorded  to  her  in  the  way  of  hardship  as 
patiently  as  he  himself  did.  West,  on  the  contrary, 
was  always  sympathetic.  Edith's  cares,  her  wor- 
ries, her  troubles,  he  at  once  made  his  own,  and 
seemed  only  content  if  he  could  in  some  way  relieve 
them.  That  he  had  the  means  to  do  so,  and  could 
not,  made  it  all  the  harder  for  him.  He  would  have 
given  her  anything  he  possessed,  yet  knew  she  could 
accept  only  the  veriest  trifles.  Flowers,  theater 
tickets,  automobile  rides,  served  to  intensify,  rather 
than  lessen,  her  longings  for  the  things  she  must 


THE  BRUTE  67 

perforce  do  without.  Expensive  restaurants  implied 
expensive  costumes,  hats,  jewels,  which  she  did  not 
have  and  could  not  get,  and  she  often  wondered  that 
her  companion  did  not  feel  ashamed  of  her  in  her 
home-made  clothes. 

By  some  system  of  more-than-rigid  economy 
known  only  to  herself  she  had  managed  to  procure 
a  few  of  the  things  she  felt  she  most  needed :  a  long 
automobile  coat  —  reduced  because  shop-worn  —  a 
motor  hat  and  veil,  and  an  evening  gown  which  had 
once  been  part  of  the  theatrical  outfit  of  a  well- 
known  star,  and  which  she  had  picked  up,  second- 
hand, at  a  little  shop  on  Sixth  Avenue.  It  was  very 
magnificent;  she  felt  almost  ashamed  to  wear  it  so 
often,  but  she  knew  that  it  showed  off  her  charms 
to  the  greatest  advantage,  having  been  designed, 
primarily,  with  that  end  in  view.  Had  she  ever 
stopped  to  ask  herself  why  she  wanted  to  exhibit 
these  charms  to  West  she  would  probably  have  been 
unable  to  answer  her  own  question,  but  she  had  long 
ago  ceased  to  catechize  herself  —  sufficient  it  was 
that  Billy  was  pleased  that  she  looked  well,  and 
that  Donald  did  not  blame  her.  She  was  floating 
happily  along  from  day  to  day,  not  daring  to  ask 


68  THE  BRUTE 

herself  what  the  outcome  of  it  all  would  be. 
She  was  seldom  alone  with  West  —  alone,  that  is, 
in  the  sense  of  being  to  themselves.  She  had  not 
dared,  after  that  first  night,  to  have  him  at  the 
apartment  —  they  had  met  at  the  doorstep,  and 
their  hours  together  were  spent  over  restaurant  ta- 
bles, or  in  theater  seats,  or  the  automobile.  She  had 
a  terrible  fear  that  some  time  or  other  West  would 
reach  out  his  arms  to  her  and  she  knew  that,  if  he 
did,  she  would  go  to  him  without  a  question.  He 
had  assisted  her  in  avoiding  such  a  contretemps,  for 
he,  too,  knew  his  power,  and  was  fighting  to  hold 
what  he  had,  rather  than  lose  it  in  a  vague  and 
mysterious  future,  at  the  character  of  which  he  could 
only  guess.  On  one  or  two  occasions,  when  they  had 
come  in  from  automobiling,  and  West  was  waiting 
until  Donald  should  arive  from  the  office,  prepara- 
tory to  their  all  going  to  dinner  together,  she  had 
purposely  brought  Bobbie  into  the  room.  Once 
when  they  had  so  come  in,  Bobbie  was  out  with  his 
nurse,  and  she  had  wondered  if  Billy  would  take  ad- 
vantage of  the  fact.  Much  as  she  feared  it,  she  was 
conscious  of  a  fierce  hope  that  he  would.  These  two 
were  like  firebrands  —  he  longed  in  every  fiber  to 


THE  BRUTE  69 

take  her  into  his  arms  and  kiss  her,  and  she  knew  it. 
She  equally  hungered  for  his  embraces,  and  he  knew 
that  this  was  so ;  in  both  their  minds  this  maddening 
thought  had  become  a  reality  —  a  thousand  times. 
She  had  acted  it  to  herself  over  and  over,  as  he  had 
done,  and  had  felt,  in  her  imagination,  every  thrill 
of  delight  which  this  physical  contact  would  give 
her,  yet  something,  some  leash  of  conscience  as  yet 
not  worn  to  the  breaking  point,  held  them  apart. 

On  this  particular  occasion  he  sat  far  from  her, 
and  held  on  to  his  half-smoked  cigar  as  though  it 
had  been  his  salvation.  She  busied  herself  turning 
idly  the  leaves  of  a  magazine.  He  knew,  if  he  threw 
that  cigar  away,  he  would  go  over  to  her  and  take 
her  in  his  arms,  and  kiss  her,  and  he  dared  not  to  do 
it  —  for  fear  of  what  might  come  thereafter. 

In  April,  he  had  been  obliged  to  go  away  for  three 
weeks,  in  connection  with  some  business  affairs  in 
the  West,  and  the  separation  had  come  almost  as  a 
relief  to  both  of  them.  They  had  endured  as  far  as 
human  flesh  and  blood  could  endure.  West  told  her 
of  the  matters  which  made  it  necessary  for  him  to  go, 
but  she  felt  that  they  were  not  so  important  as  he 
represented,  and  knew  in  her  heart  that  he  was  going 


70  THE  BRUTE 

away  because  he  wanted  to  give  both  himself  and 
her  an  opportunity  to  readjust  themselves,  to  think 
matters  over  calmly,  without  the  presence  of  each 
other  to  affect  their  judgment. 

The  time  of  his  absence  seemed  interminably  long. 
Edith  found  that  most  of  the  long  series  of  intro- 
spective analyses  to  which  she  subjected  herself  ter- 
minated in  a  mad  desire  to  have  him  back  again  in 
New  York.  His  absence  had  shown  her  how  abso- 
lutely she  had  been  depending  upon  him,  how  his 
going  had  taken  from  her  everything  that  made  her 
life  joyous  and  happy,  leaving  only  the  dull  back- 
ground of  duty  and  work,  two  things  that  she  had 
come  to  regard  merely  as  unfortunate  necessities  of 
existence. 

During  his  absence  she  spent  a  great  deal  more 
time  with  Bobbie  than  she  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
doing  of  late,  and  found  to  her  surprise  that  the 
child  depended  upon  her  and  thought  of  her  less  than 
he  had  done  before.  His  nurse  was  a  kind-hearted 
young  girl,  who  had  come  to  love  the  little  boy 
deeply  and  mothered  him  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  He 
had  got  out  of  the  habit  of  seeing  his  mother  all 
day  as  he  had  done  in  the  past  and,  with  the  easy  for- 


THE  BRUTE  71 

getfulness  of  childhood,  clamored  for  Nellie,  as  the 
girl  was  called,  and  their  daily  walks  in  the  park, 
the  games  she  had  thought  out  to  amuse  him,  the 
easy  comradeship  that  made  her  his  playfellow  rather 
than  a  superior  and  distant  grown-up.  Edith  re- 
sented this,  at  first,  but  soon  ceased  her  attempts  to 
change  matters  and  busied  herself  in  making  dresses 
for  the  coming  summer. 

She  saw  West  again  on  a  drizzly  afternoon  in 
May.  His  frequent  letters  had  told  her  of  his  life 
while  away  and  of  the  day  of  his  return.  He  had 
called  rather  unexpectedly  about  three  o'clock,  and 
they  had  gone  for  a  walk  in  the  park.  He  seemed 
strangely  silent,  at  first,  and  neither  of  them  spoke 
much  for  a  few  moments ;  they  walked  along  side  by 
side,  inwardly  trying  to  bridge  the  gap  which  the 
past  few  weeks  had  made  in  their  lives.  Presently 
he  spoke. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  be  back 
again.  I  used  to  like  the  West,  but  I  do  not  think 
I  could  ever  live  there  again." 

She  said  what  was  nearest  her  heart.  "  I  am 
glad,  too  —  very  glad,"  then  grew  confused  and 
silent. 


72  THE  BRUTE 

"  I  brought  you  a  little  souvenir,"  he  said,  taking 
a  small  package  from  his  pocket,  and  handing  it  to 
her.  She  opened  the  box  it  contained  and  drew  out 
a  magnificent  gold  chain  purse.  "  I  had  it  made 
from  some  of  the  gold  from  our  mine,"  he  continued 
hesitatingly ;  "  I  thought  you  might  like  it." 

"  Oh,  Billy !  "  she  cried,  and  looked  up  at  him  with 
darkening  eyes.  "  How  lovely  of  you  to  think  of 
me !  It  is  beautiful  —  beautiful."  She  gloated  over 
its  exquisite  workmanship  with  all  the  joy  of  sud- 
denly possessing  something  which  had  always  seemed 
very  far  away. 

"  I  hoped  you  would  like  it,"  he  said. 

"  Oh  —  I  do  —  more  than  I  can  tell  you.  I  never 
expected  to  have  one,  though  I  have  longed  for  it 
all  my  life."  She  smiled,  dangling  the  purse  de- 
lightedly from  its  gold  chain.  "  I  only  wish  I  had 
more  to  put  in  it,"  she  concluded  thoughtlessly. 

"So   do   I  — Edith— so   do   I."     His   tone   be- 
trayed  the   intensity    of   his    feelings.     "  I   wish    I 
could  do  more  for  you  —  but  I  haven't  the  right  — 
I  haven't  the  right."     His  voice  trailed  off  help- 
lessly.    "  I  only  wish  I  had." 

She  said  nothing  to  this.     It  was  perilous  ground 


THE  BRUTE  73 

and  they  both  knew  it.  "  How  is  Donald  ? "  he 
asked  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  he's  very  well.  Busy  as  ever.  Won't  you 
come  in  and  see  us  this  evening?" 

"  No  —  not  this  evening.  I  have  a  man  with  me 
from  Denver  that  I  must  be  with.  He  is  going  on 
to  Boston  at  midnight.  One  of  our  directors,"  he 
added  by  way  of  explanation.  "  But  we  must  take 
a  ride  in  the  machine  to-morrow.  I  suppose  it  will 
be  quite  rusty  for  want  of  use." 

"  I  suppose  so.     I've  missed  our  trips." 

He  looked  at  her  closely.  "  Yes,  I  can  see  that," 
he  said,  "  you  do  not  look  so  well  —  you  are  pale 
and  tired.  What  have  you  been  doing  with  your- 
self? " 

"  Oh,  nothing  much.  Sewing,  mostly."  She  did 
not  tell  him  that  her  principal  occupation  had  been 
waiting  for  him  to  return. 

"  You  need  the  fresh  air.  Suppose  we  take  a 
run  down  to  Garden  City  and  have  luncheon  there. 
I'll  look  in  and  see  Donald  in  the  morning  and  say 
hello.  Does  he  know*  I  am  back  ?  " 

"No  —  I  don't  think  so.     I  didn't  mention  it." 

He  said  nothing  to  this  at  first  and  did  not  even 


74  THE  BRUTE 

look  at  her.  "  I  wonder  if  Donald  minds  my  —  our 
—  our  going  about  so  much  together,"  he  ventured, 
at  last.  "  Do  you  think  he  does?  " 

"I  don't  think  so,"  she  replied.  "Why  should 
he?  I  think  he  is  rather  glad  that  I  have  had  so 
much  pleasure."  She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went 
on.  "  He  has  never  said  anything.  You  know 
how  fond  he  is  of  you." 

"  Yes  —  I  know  it."  He  spoke  as  though  the 
thought  brought  up  unpleasant  ideas.  "  Isn't  life 
a  terrible  tragedy?"  he  said,  as  though  to  himself. 
"  The  things  we  want  most,  it  seems,  we  can  never, 
never  have,  without  hurting  someone  else  to  get 
them." 

"  Donald  says  that  is  sure  proof  that  we  ought 
not  to  have  them,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  do  you  think  so,  too?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  I  —  I  do  not  know." 

He  hesitated  a  moment,  then  went  on  impetuously. 
"  Is  duty  after  all  everything  in  the  world?  Is 
there  not  a  duty  to  ourselves  as  well  as  to  others? 
May  not  one  duty  conflict  with  another,  and  make 
it  hard  to  know  which  one  we  ought  to  follow  ?  Must 
two  people  make  themselves  utterly  wretched,  to 


THE  BRUTE  75 

give  happiness  to  a  third?  Isn't  it  somehow  sort 
of  unequal  —  paying  too  great  a  price  for  a  thing 
that  is  not  worth  it?  " 

She  did  not  answer  him,  nor  did  he  expect  her  to 
do  so.  He  was  in  reality  only  thinking  aloud  — 
expressing  the  thoughts  which  had  been  uppermost 
in  his  mind  for  the  past  three  weeks,  and,  woman-like, 
she  took  refuge  in  silence,  for  she  knew  that  were  she 
to  answer  him  truthfully  she  would  agree  with  him. 

"  If  two  people  love  each  other  enough,  doesn't  it 
make  up  for  anything  else  in  the  world?  We  can't 
control  our  feelings.  We  can't  help  it,  if  love 
comes  to  us  and  takes  from  us  everything  in  our 
lives,  and  leaves  nothing  behind  but  itself.  There 
must  be  some  purpose  in  it  all.  If  there  is  nothing 
left  to  us  but  love,  why  should  we  have  to  give  that 
up  as  well,  and  go  on  and  on  in  wretched  misery 
to  the  end?  I  can't  do  it  —  and  yet,  I  know  that  I 
must." 

She  trembled  as  she  heard  his  words  —  so  unlike 
the  care-free  man  she  had  come  to  know.  He  had 
changed  very  much,  in  these  past  few  weeks.  The 
lines  of  suffering  in  his  face  were  new  to  it,  and 
only  a  great  emotion  could  have  set  them  there.  He 


76  .       THE  BRUTE 

loved  her  with  a  strong,  compelling  love,  and  he  was 
wrestling  with  the  vital  problems  of  duty  and  right. 
She,  on  her  part,  loved  him  because  of  what  pleasure 
he  had  given  her,  and  was  wrestling  with  no  problems 
whatever.  Her  only  thought  at  the  moment  was  a 
great  desire  to  have  him  put  his  arms  about  her  and 
crush  her  to  him.  This,  however,  he  did  not  know, 
for  he  had  idealized  her  and  invested  her  with  all 
manner  of  high  qualities  and  virtues  which  she  by 
no  means  possessed.  She  had  begun  to  feel  just  a 
trifle  annoyed  by  his  constant  self-control.  Some- 
how it  seemed  to  belittle  her  own  powers  of  attrac- 
tion. She  feared,  at  times,  that  he  might,  casting 
prudence,  duty  —  honor  to  the  winds,  overwhelm 
her  in  a  wild  and  rapturous  outburst  of  love,  but 
the  fact  that  he  had  not  done  so,  up  to  now,  annoyed 
her  a  little,  and  almost  made  her  desire  the  more 
that  he  would.  She  liked  to  feel  that  West  was  a 
firebrand,  that  she  herself  was  keeping  him  at  a  dis- 
tance—  she  did  not  enjoy  the  thought  that  he  was 
controlling  himself  in  spite  of  her.  He  pedestaled 
her  as  a  paragon  of  virtue,  a  creature  of  restraint, 
which  he,  a  devastating  male,  had  caused  to  love  him. 
She  was  in  reality  far  more  frail  than  he,  and  the 


THE  BRUTE  77 

more  he  held  aloof,  the  more  she  burned  for  his 
caresses.  Passion  had  made  her  shameless. 

She  walked  along  without  replying  for  a  long  time, 
and  he,  misconstruing  her  silence,  thought  he  had 
offended  her,  by  what  he  had  said,  and  began  to 
speak  of  lighter  things.  He  told  her  of  his  trip  to 
Denver,  of  his  friends  and  acquaintances  there,  and 
she  pretended  to  a  deep  interest,  but  all  the  while 
she  was  longing  to  hear  him  burst  forth  with,  "  I  love 
you,  I  love  you."  After  all,  there  was  much  of  logic 
in  her  position,  for  she  knew  perfectly  well  that  the 
time  would  eventually  come  when  he  would  say  those 
words  to  her,  unless,  indeed,  he  were  to  go  away 
from  her,  and  avoid  yielding  to  temptation  by  flee- 
ing from  it,  and  of  this  there  seemed  not  the  slight- 
est prospect.  She  knew  she  had  a  compelling  hold 
on  him  —  he  might  for  a  time  prevent  himself  from 
telling  her  his  feelings,  but  she  could  hold  him  near 
her  as  long  as  she  pleased. 

The  rain  made  the  afternoon  unpleasant  for  walk- 
ing. They  turned  into  the  Casino  and  had  a  cup 
of  tea,  and  chatted  indifferently  of  subjects  in  which 
neither  of  them  was  interested.  West  was  in  a 
hurry  to  get  away  —  he  seemed  less  sure  of  himself 


78  THE  BRUTE 

than  usual,  and  ill  at  ease.  At  close  to  five  o'clock 
they  returned  to  the  apartment  and  he  left  her,  with 
the  understanding  that  he  would  stop  for  her  in 
the  machine  at  eleven  the  next  day. 


CHAPTER  VI 

EDITH  came  back  from  her  walk  very  much 
out  of  sorts.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though 
Billy  understood  her  so  much  better  than  Donald 
ever  had,  or,  as  far  as  she  could  see,  ever  would  un- 
derstand her,  and  yet  their  love,  for  such  she  ad- 
mitted it  to  herself  to  be,  was  leading  to  nothing. 
The  gloomy  entrance  of  the  Roxborough  seemed 
to  grate  upon  her  nerves,  and  her  feeling  of  dis- 
satisfaction persisted  throughout  the  evening. 
Dtmald  had  some  work  to  do  after  dinner,  and  sat 
at  his  desk  in  silence  for  a  long  time,  writing  steadily. 
She,  on  her  part,  got  out  her  sewing,  and  prepared 
to  spend  the  evening  darning  Bobbie's  stockings. 
She  hated  it  —  she  had  always  disliked  to  sew,  but 
in  a  way  it  seemed  a  sort  of  penance,  a  duty, 
whereby  she  paid  for  the  pleasures  of  the  day. 

DoHald  was  more  than  usually  quiet  over  his  let- 
ters. Presently  he  sealed  up  the  last  one  and,  rising, 
began  to  walk  uneasily  up  and  down  the  room.  She 

waited  for  him  to  speak,  guiltily  wondering  if  he 

79 


80  THE  BRUTE 

suspected   anything.     Presently   he   turned   to   her. 

"  Edith,"  he  said,  "  have  you  heard  from  Billy 
West?  " 

For  a  moment  she  hesitated.  To  what  was  this 
question  leading?  What  had  prompted  it?  Then 
she  dropped  her  sewing  into  her  lap  and  faced  him. 
"  Yes,"  she  said  slowly.  "  He  was  here  this  after- 
noon." 

"Then  he  is  back?"  He  glanced  at  her  sud- 
denly, but  without  suspicion.  "  Queer  he  didn't  let 
me  know." 

"  Oh,  he  just  ran  in  for  a  moment  to  say  he'd 
returned.  He  intended  to  look  you  up  in  the  morn- 
ing. He  was  very  busy  —  he  told  me  —  some  man 
from  Boston  to  entertain  —  one  of  the  directors  of 
his  company,  I  believe." 

Donald  seemed  for  a  moment  engrossed  in  his 
thoughts.  She  observed  a  worried  look  cross  his 
face,  but  could  not  determine  its  cause. 

"  I'm  glad  he's  back,"  he  said.  "  I've  got  a  mat- 
ter I  want  to  talk  over  with  him." 

"What  is  it?"  His  seriousness  for  a  moment 
frightened  her. 

"  It's  something  I've  been  considering  for  a  long 


THE  BRUTE  81 

time.  I  hardly  like  to  speak  of  it  to  him,  and  yet 
I  don't  know  anyone  else  to  whom  I  can  turn.  It's 
about  that  glass  plant  of  ours,  in  West  Virginia. 
We're  awfully  short  of  capital,  and  I  have  an  idea 
that  there  is  trouble  ahead.  The  money  market  is 
getting  tighter  and  tighter.  The  outlook  for  busi- 
ness is  bad.  We  are  likely  to  need  a  little  money, 
before  long,  to  tide  us  over.  I'm  thinking  of  sug- 
gesting to  Billy  that  if  he  wants  to  invest  a  few 
thousands  on  first-class  security  —  bonds,  he  might 
very  easily  do  much  worse  than  put  it  into  our  con- 
cern." 

She  took  up  her  sewing  again  with  a  sigh  of  re- 
lief. So  it  was  nothing  but  a  matter  of  business, 
after  all,  with  which  she  was  not  greatly  concerned. 
Yet,  before  she  replied,  a  curious  pang  of  conscience 
smote  her.  Billy  would  do  this,  she  knew;  do  it 
for  her  sake,  if  not,  indeed,  for  Donald's,  and  for  a 
brief  space  she  felt  ashamed  to  think  that  Donald 
would  owe  the  assistance  he  needed  to  the  fact  that 
Billy  West  loved  her.  The  thought  was  fleeting  — 
elusive  —  and  in  a  moment  was  swallowed  up  in 
the  greater  knowledge  of  their  love ;  yet,  for  that  mo- 
ment, she  had  ranged  herself  beside  her  husband, 


82  THE  BRUTE 

resenting  the  suggestion  for  his  sake,  finding  in  it 
something  that  humiliated  and  hurt  her. 

"  If  it  is  a  good  investment,"  she  presently  ex- 
claimed, "  I  don't  see  why  he  should  not  put  some 
money  into  it." 

"  Of  course  it's  a  good  investment.  I  shouldn't 
have  my  own  in  it,  if  it  weren't  We  need  only  a 
small  amount  —  nothing  to  West.  He  can't  begin 
to  spend  his  income."  He  looked  moodily  about  the 
room.  "  I'm  not  envious,  but  I  wish  I  had  a  tenth 
of  it.  There  are  so  many  things  I'd  like  to  do 
for  you,  dear,  if  I  only  could.  I'm  glad  that  he  has 
been  able  to  make  the  past  few  months  more  pleasant 
for  you.  Billy  is  one  of  the  best  fellows  I've  ever 
met  —  generous  and  unselfish  to  a  fault.  I'm  very 
fond  of  him ;  I  haven't  a  friend  I  think  more  of." 

Again  the  pang  of  conscience  smote  Edith.  The 
enormity  of  the  deception  which  she  and  West  had 
been  practicing  upon  Donald  appalled  her,  and  he 
seemed  so  unsuspecting,  so  guileless.  His  next 
words,  however,  drove  the  thought  from  her  mind. 

"  I  wish  he'd  marry.  He  really  needs  someone 
to  look  after  him.  I  wonder  that  your  sister  Alice 
doesn't  get  along  with  him  better.  What's  the  trou- 


THE  BRUTE  83 

ble,  anyway  ?  She  hardly  ever  sees  him.  Why  don't 
you  do  more  to  bring  them  together?  " 

Edith  instinctively  resented  the  suggestion.  Billy 
West  was  hers,  by  right  of  conquest.  The  thought 
of  turning  him  over  to  anyone,  even  to  her  sister, 
annoyed  her.  "  Alice  thinks  too  much  of  someone 
else,"  she  replied  primly. 

"  You  mean  Hall?  " 

"  Yes.  They've  been  as  good  as  engaged  for 
months.  Mother  objects,  of  course,  but  I  think 
Alice  loves  him." 

Donald  smiled.  "  In  that  case,  we'll  have  to  find 
someone  else  for  Billy.  Emerson  Hall  is  a  splendid 
fellow,  and  I'd  be  glad  to  see  Alice  marry  him." 
He  came  over  to  Edith  and  patted  her  shoulder  af- 
fectionately. "  I  never  expected  to  play  the  role 
of  a  matchmaker,  but  I'd  be  mighty  glad  to  see  Billy 
fall  in  love  with  some  nice  girl,  who  would  appre- 
ciate him,  and  help  him  to  make  something  of  his 
life.  Just  sitting  around  New  York,  spending  thirty 
or  forty  thousand  a  year,  isn't  good  for  any  man. 
With  his  money  he  ought  to  travel,  see  the  world, 
take  up  some  hobby,  have  children  —  that's  about 
the  most  human  thing  a  man  can  do.  With  all  that 


84.  THE  BRUTE 

money  at  his  command  he  could  do  so  much  for 
them." 

"  Yes,"  she  assented,  not  daring  to  look  at  him. 

"  What  I'm  afraid  of  is  that  he'll  fall  in  love  with 
some  woman  who'll  ruin  his  life — somebody  that 
won't  have  an  idea  above  clothes,  and  automobiles, 
and  physical  enjoyment.  There  are  so  many  like 
that,  here  in  New  York,  and,  if  he  should  happen 
to  care  for  one  of  them,  it  would  spoil  his  whole 
future.  Billy  is  really  quite  simple  in  his  tastes. 
He'd  love  a  big  country  place,  and  horses,  and  dogs, 
and  all  that.  This  gay  New  York  life  attracts  him 
now,  because  he's  been  away  from  it  for  so  long, 
but  in  another  six  months  he'll  be  sick  of  it.  I'm 
going  to  have  a  talk  with  him." 

Edith  said  nothing.  What,  indeed,  was  there  for 
her  to  say?  Donald's  words  cut  deep.  For  a  brief 
space  she  almost  hated  herself.  Was  West's  love 
for  her  going  to  spoil  his  whole  life?  She  shivered 
at  the  thought.  Then  the  picture  of  the  man,  his 
smiling  face,  his  attractive  and  alluring  personality, 
rose  before  her,  and  drove  away  the  doubts  which 
had  for  the  moment  chilled  her  heart.  She  rose  and 
put  away  her  sewing.  "  Perhaps  you  had  better  let 


THE  BRUTE  85 

Billy  West  manage  his  own  love-affairs,"  she  re- 
marked quietly. 

Donald,  busily  engaged  in  refilling  his  pipe,  failed 
to  see  the  trace  of  resentment  which  accompanied 
her  words.  "  Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  interfere,"  he 
said.  "  I'm  not  a  fool.  But  Billy  and  I  have  been 
friends  for  a  long  time,  and  I  don't  think  he'd  mind 
a  little  advice  from  me." 

"  You  are  going  to  ask  him  about  this  —  this 
money,  to-morrow  ?  "  Edith  inquired  presently. 

"  Perhaps.  I  may  sound  him  out,  at  least.  We 
sha'n't  need  the  money  for  some  weeks  —  may  not 
need  it  at  all,  in  fact,  but  I  want  to  be  prepared." 

He  did  talk  the  matter  over  with  West  the  next 
day,  and  the  latter  fell  in  with  the  plan  at  once. 
He  felt  a  deep  sense  of  shame  at  the  injury  he  was 
doing  his  friend,  and  was  anxious  to  make  amends 
in  any  way  that  he  could.  It  occurred  to  him, 
also,  that  perhaps  in  this  way  he  might,  indi- 
rectly at  least,  help  Edith.  Deep  down  in  his 
soul  he  despised  himself,  felt  himself  a  traitor, 
in  thought  at  least,  if  not  yet  in  deed,  to  this 
man  who  loved  and  trusted  him.  For  a  moment 
he  almost  made  up  his  mind  to  tell  Edith  at 


86  THE  BRUTE 

once  that  he  could  not  see  her  again,  that  they  must 
part  forever.  The  intention  was  an  honest  one,  at 
the  time.  Even  he  did  not  admit  that  one  smile 
from  her  —  one  touch  of  her  hand  —  would  consign 
it  to  the  paving  operations  in  hell  which  is  the  des- 
tiny of  so  large  a  proportion  of  all  good  intentions. 

He  refused  Donald's  invitation  to  luncheon,  ex- 
plaining that  he  meant  to  take  Edith  out  for  a  drive 
in  the  car.  Donald  even  thanked  him  for  this. 
"  You  are  a  brick,  Billy,"  he  said,  gripping  his  hand 
at  parting.  "  Since  you've  been  back,  Edith  has 
been  like  another  woman.  I  believe  she's  gained  ten 
pounds,  and  all  her  nervousness  is  gone.  Being  out 
in  the  air  so  much,  I  suppose.  But  we  can't  let  her 
monopolize  you.  Why  don't  you  get  married, 
Billy?" 

The  suddenness  of  the  question  threw  West  for  the 
moment  off  his  guard.  "  Married ! "  he  exclaimed. 
"  Why  —  I  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  He  looked  at 
his  friend  narrowly. 

"  It's  plain  enough,  isn't  it  Here  you  are,  a 
young  and  good-looking  chap  with  plenty  of  money. 
What  more  natural  than  to  marry,  and  have  a  home, 
and  children  ?  It's  the  only  way  to  be  really  happy. 


THE  BRUTE  87 

All  this  "  —  he  waved  his  hand  toward  the  vista  of 
roofs  and  pinnacles  which  stretched  endlessly  north- 
ward — "  doesn't  really  get  you  anywhere.  You 
know  that,  as  well  as  I." 

"I  —  I  guess  you're  right.  I'd  be  glad  enough 
to  get  away  from  it  all  —  with  a  woman  I  loved. 
I'd  never  want  to  see  New  York  again.  But  — 
I  — "  he  hesitated,  faltered  —  "I  guess  I  won't 
marry  yet  awhile,  Don  —  not  yet  awhile." 

"  Better  think  it  over,  old  man,"  he  heard  Donald 
call  out  to  him,  as  he  turned  away. 

All  the  way  up-town  he  hated  himself,  hated  the 
circumstances  which  had  placed  him  in  this  horrible 
situation,  with  love  on  the  one  side,  duty  on  the 
other,  tearing  at  his  heart.  He  felt  so  depressed 
that  he  stopped  on  the  way  and  drank  two  highballs. 
They  served  to  drive  away  the  fog  of  doubts  which 
had  begun  to  envelop  him. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  Roxborough,  his  spirits 
had  commenced  to  revive.  The  presence  of  Edith, 
her  happy,  smiling  face,  her  unconcealed  joy  at 
seeing  him,  completed  the  change.  After  all,  he  was 
only  taking  for  a  spin  in  the  country  the  woman  he 
loved,  the  woman  he  had  always  loved.  There  was 


88  THE  BRUTE 

nothing  wrong  in  that.  He  had  not  been  false  to 
Donald  by  any  overt  act.  God  had  put  this  love 
into  his  heart,  and  he  had  only  responded  as  his 
nature  made  him  respond.  The  futility  of  blam- 
ing the  whole  affair  upon  God  did  not  at  the  mo- 
ment occur  to  him.  It  was  a  convenient  way  of 
shifting  the  responsibility,  and  one  that  has  been 
much  utilized  since  the  days  of  Adam. 

Edith,  on  her  part,  felt  that  the  time  had  come 
for  an  understanding  of  some  sort  between  West 
and  herself.  It  would  be  unfair  to  all  concerned, 
she  decided,  to  allow  matters  to  drift  as  they  had 
been  drifting.  If  West  should  tell  her  that  he 
loved  her,  it  would  give  her  a  reason  for  not  seeing 
him,  an  excuse  for  driving  him  away.  Until  he  did 
speak,  she  could  do  nothing.  She  was  by  no  means 
certain  that,  should  he  declare  himself,  she  would 
forthwith  proceed  to  put  him  out  of  her  life.  That 
question  she  left  for  the  emotions  of  the  moment  to 
decide.  But  she  believed  that,  until  the  moment  ar- 
rived, she  was  quite  helpless,  for  either  good  or  ill. 
To  break  with  West,  her  husband's  friend  and  her 
own,  now,  without  apparent  reason,  would  be  to  as- 
sume that  he  loved  her,  and  loved  her  wrongfully  — 


THE  BRUTE  89 

she  was  not  certain  that  this  was  true,  not  suffi- 
ciently certain,  at  least,  to  deny  herself  the  joy  of 
finding  out. 

For  all  these  reasons  she  decided  to  do  her  best 
to  force  West  to  declare  himself.  Then  she  would 
have  a  crisis  to  face  —  a  reality,  not  a  mere  sup- 
position. And  whatever  course  she  then  decided  up- 
on, whether  love,  or  duty,  it  would  at  least  be  definite 
and  final,  and  the  present  state  of  affairs  was 
neither. 

By  this  complex  system  of  reasoning  Edith  Rogers 
justified  herself  in  her  intention  to  force  from  West 
a  declaration  of  his  love,  and  justified  herself  so 
completely  that,  when  she  joined  him  at  the  entrance 
to  the  apartment,  she  had  almost  convinced  herself 
that  she  was  about  to  commit  a  most  laudable  and 
praiseworthy  act. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  is  a  curious,  but  undeniable,  fact  that  there  is 
something  in  the  effect  of  rapid  motion  upon  the 
senses  that  generates  love.  Possibly  it  is  the  poetry 
of  movement  which  attunes  the  mind  to  thoughts  of 
a  less  practical  nature.  The  dance,  the  swift  motion 
of  an  ocean  liner,  the  whirl  of  a  motor  car,  are  they 
not  responsible  for  a  multitude  of  sins;  else  why 
the  ballroom  flirtations,  the  love-affairs  on  ship- 
board, the  eloping  heiress  and  the  chauffeur?  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  there  was  something  in  the  drive  to 
Garden  City  at  Edith's  side  that  morning,  which  en- 
gendered in  West  a  more  passive  attitude,  a  more 
willing  yielding  to  their  growing  love  for  each  other, 
than  he  had  felt  while  walking  with  her  in  the  park 
the  day  before.  She,  on  her  part,  dismissed  all  un- 
pleasant thoughts  from  her  mind,  and  reveled  in  the 
joy  of  the  moment.  The  day  was  brilliant,  though 
somewhat  cold.  The  heavy  fur-lined  coat  she  wore 
had  been  purchased  a  short  time  before  by  West, 

for   her   especial   use;   she   appreciated   the   motive 

90 


THE  BRUTE  91 

which  had  prompted  him  to  do  this  —  he  thought 
so  continually  of  her  comfort,  her  happiness. 

She  turned  and  glanced  at  him,  and  noted  with 
pleasure,  even  with  a  secret  glow  of  happiness,  the 
strong,  handsome  lines  of  his  face,  ruddy  in  the  sharp 
wind,  the  strength  of  his  arms,  the  poise  of  his  shoul- 
ders. Through  the  coat  which  enveloped  her  she 
could  feel  the  subtle  warmth  of  his  body  —  she 
nestled  closer  to  him,  and  basked  in  a  delightful 
realization  of  his  strength,  his  mastery  over  the  on- 
rushing  car,  his  steady,  unfailing  nerves,  which  alone 
stood  betwen  her  and  death.  It  seemed  so  fine  to 
know  that  her  life  rested  in  his  hands,  that  a  mo- 
mentary weakness,  a  trifling  slip  on  his  part  might 
hurl  them  both  to  destruction  against  some  tree, 
or  rock,  or  ever  present  telegraph  pole.  She  began 
to  wonder,  after  all,  how  she  had  ever  lived 
these  years  without  love,  real,  dominating  love,  such 
as  she  believed  this  to  be,  to  illumine  and  glorify  her 
life.  Everything,  indeed,  with  Donald  seemed  so 
sordid.  There  was  the  everlasting  talk  of  money, 
the  continual  effort  to  make  ends  meet,  the  constant 
fear  least  she  spend  a  little  more  than  his  income 
would  justify.  All  this  had  passed  from  her,  to-day. 


92  THE  BRUTE 

She  moved  along  in  a  cloud  of  wonderful,  waking 
dreams,  and  life  seemed  once  more  a  joyous,  sen- 
tient thing.  She  even  forgot  Bobbie,  and  it  almost 
seemed  as  though,  if  she  could  spend  all  the  rest  of 
her  life  by  West's  side,  anything  else  would  be  of 
but  minor  importance. 

West  interrupted  her  day-dreams.  "  Are  you 
warm  enough,  dear?  "  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  quite,"  she  gasped  against  the  wind 
and  wondered  if  he  realized  how  in  using  that  term  of 
endearment  he  had  caused  a  glow  of  happiness  to 
flood  her  until  her  faced  burned.  It  was  something 
he  had  never  done  before,  yet  it  did  not  seem  strange 
to  her.  Their  personalities  seemed  vibrant,  attuned 
to  each  other  and  to  some  great  harmony  of  love 
which  was  a  part  of  the  rushing  wind,  the  brilliant 
sunshine,  the  blue  sky.  She  felt  that  he  was  going 
to  say  something  to  her  —  something  that  she 
dreaded,  yet  waited  for  as  a  bride  for  her  bride- 
groom. Somehow  all  thought  of  disloyalty  to  Donald 
had  vanished.  It  was  not  that  she  put  it  aside,  or 
trampled  upon  it  —  in  this  glorified  atmosphere 
of  love  it  simply  no  longer  existed. 

Presently  he  turned  to  her,  as  they  were  slowly 


THE  BRUTE  93 

mounting  a  long  stretch  of  hill.  "  I  wish  we  could 
go  on  and  on,  and  never  stop,  for  all  the  rest  of  our 
lives,"  he  said,  looking  at  her  hungrily.  She  met  his 
gaze  with  a  glad  smile  and  they  told  each  other  with 
their  eyes  what  had  been  growing  in  their  hearts 
for  all  these  months.  The  road  stretched  before 
them,  gray  and  lonely.  West  put  his  left  arm  about 
her  with  a  caressing  motion  that  seemed  to  embrace 
within  it  not  only  herself,  but  all  her  hopes  and  fears, 
her  troubles  and  her  joys.  She  did  not  passively 
yield  herself  to  his  embraces,  she  leaped  to  him,  her 
brain  on  fire,  her  soul  in  her  eyes.  When  their  lips 
met,  she  hardly  knew  it,  all  the  music  of  the  heavenly 
choirs  seemed  singing  in  her  ears,  and  in  that  mo- 
ment of  supreme  happiness  neither  future  nor  past 
for  her  existed.  In  an  instant  he  had  turned  from 
her  and,  with  his  hands  on  the  steering  wheel,  swept 
the  road  ahead  with  cautious  eyes.  The  whole  thing 
seemed  like  a  dream  —  a  fantasy  of  the  imagination, 
yet  she  knew  it  was  the  realest  thing  in  her  life  at  the 
moment,  the  one  great  experience  that  eclipsed  all 
lesser  experiences  as  though  they  had  never  been  at 
all. 

They  did  not  say  much  for  a  long  time,  for  each 


94  THE  BRUTE 

seemed  to  feel  the  irrevocability  of  the  thing  that 
had  befallen  them.  It  was  not  as  though  West  had 
kissed  her,  as  a  man  might  kiss  a  flirtatiously  in- 
clined woman.  She  knew  that  to  him,  at  least,  that 
kiss  had  meant  a  seal  of  love ;  what  it  had  meant  to 
her  she  had  not  yet  in  her  own  mind  decided. 

After  what  seemed  to  her  hours,  he  spoke  again. 
"  I  am  thinking  of  going  away,  Edith,"  he  said,  and 
his  voice  seemed  to  come  to  her  from  a  long  way 
off,  and  wake  her  from  happy  dreams. 

"Going  away?"  she  asked,  with  a  new  timidity. 
"Where?" 

"  To  Europe,  to  Cairo,  to  the  East." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  cannot  stay  here  any  longer." 

"Why  not?"  she  found  herself  asking.  "Why 
not?" 

"  Because  I  love  you,  dear,  and  because,  if  I  stay 
here,  I  am  afraid  of  what  might  happen.  I  want 
to  go  away,  to  get  out  into  the  great,  wide  places 
of  the  world,  where  air,  and  sunshine,  and  love  are 
free  and  God-given.  I  hate  New  York  and  all  it 
means.  I  cannot  stay  in  it  any  longer  —  as  things 
are." 


THE  BRUTE  95 

"  Then  I  shall  not  see  you  —  any  more?  "  she 
asked  in  a  voice  from  which  she  was  unable  to  keep 
a  quivering  sense  of  loss,  of  pain. 

"  Not  unless  you  will  go  with  me,"  he  said  sud- 
denly, turning  and  looking  into  her  face. 

"  Go  with  you  —  go  with  you  ?  "  She  repeated 
the  words  mechanically,  as  though  the  thought  sug- 
gested by  them  had  not  yet  found  a  place  in  her 
mind.  "  How  could  I?" 

"  Why  not  ?  "  His  voice  became  suddenly  in- 
tense, trembling  with  feeling.  "  I  love  you,  and  I 
want  you,  always,  close  by  my  side.  I  cannot  think 
of  going  on,  all  the  years  of  my  life,  without  you. 
I  know  how  wrong,  how  disloyal  it  all  must  seem  to 
you,  but  I  cannot  help  it.  I  love  you  —  I  love  you 
—  what  more  is  there  for  me  to  say  ?  If  you  wish 
it,  I  will  go  away  from  you  at  once  —  to-day,  and 
never  see  you  again,  if  it  breaks  my  heart.  Shall 
I?" 

She  gave  a  faint  cry.  The  thought  hurt  her,  in 
its  unexpected  cruelty.  "How  can  you  ask  me 
that?" 

The  car  was  running  very  slowly  now,  along  a 
stretch  of  road  bordered  by  high  trees,  faintly  green 


96  FHE  BRUTE 

in  their  early  spring  garb.  He  let  the  machine  come 
to  a  standstill  beside  the  road  and  took  her  fiercely 
into  his  arms.  "  Edith,  I  cannot  go  without  you  — 
my  God  —  I  cannot.  Come  with  me,  dearest,  come, 
and  forget  all  the  troubles  and  cares  of  your  life 
here.5'  He  pressed  her  to  him  with  quivering  mus- 
cles and  kissed  her.  "Will  you?  Will  you?"  he 
demanded,  and  his  voice  seemed  to  her  a  command, 
rather  than  a  question. 

She  yielded  to  his  embrace  gladly,  with  a  joyous 
sense  of  freedom.  "  Yes  —  yes ! "  she  cried,  and  lay 
still  in  his  arms. 

Presently  they  heard,  far  behind  them,  the  sound 
of  another  car  ascending  the  hill.  West  put  her 
from  him,  started  the  machine,  and  they  rushed  along 
against  the  southeast  wind,  their  hearts  big  with  their 
new-formed  plan. 

Then  a  long  silence  came  upon  them.  Perhaps 
they  were  both  thinking  of  the  pain  which  their  love 
must  cause  to  Donald,  the  inevitable  consequences 
which  must  flow  from  it.  It  was  a  natural  reaction 
from  the  exaltation  of  the  moment  before.  Edith, 
too,  was  thinking  of  Bobbie,  and  already  in  her  inmost 
soul  had  begun  to  resent  the  demands  of  this  new 


THE  BRUTE  97 

emotion,  which  required  her  to  tear  out  of  her  heart 
all  that  now  lay  within  it,  that  there  might  be  room 
for  her  love  for  West  alone.  Yet  so  strange  are  the 
ways  of  love,  that,  while  resenting  the  result,  she  did 
not  resent  the  love  which  caused  it  —  to  her  Billy 
West  was,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  the  sum  of  all 
earthly  existence. 

It  was  after  one  o'clock  when  they  reached  the 
hotel  at  Garden  City,  and  in  a  few  moments  they  had 
secured  a  table  and  were  ordering  luncheon.  West 
suggested  a  cocktail,  which  seemed  very  grateful 
after  the  long  ride.  Edith  did  not  feel  hungry,  but 
ate  mechanically,  hardly  knowing  what  was  set  be- 
fore her.  She  looked  timidly  at  him,  and  felt  her 
cheeks  redden  with  a  sudden  flush.  Somehow  he 
seemed  so  big,  so  masterful,  so  different  from  Don- 
ald, and  she  knew  that  whenever  he  desired,  from  now 
on,  to  take  her  in  his  strong  arms,  she  would  not  re- 
sist him,  but  would  be  glad.  She  seemed  to  feel  to- 
ward him  an  intense  physical  attraction,  something 
that  she  had  never  felt  toward  her  husband,  an  un- 
reasoning instinct,  that  made  her  long  to  be  near 
him,  to  hear  his  voice,  to  put  her  hand  in  his,  and  for- 
get everything  else  in  the  blessed  knowledge  that  this 


98  THE  BRUTE 

man  of  her  desire  possessed  her  completely  and  ut- 
terly. 

These  thoughts  came  to  her  as  an  undercurrent, 
far  below  the  ripple  of  conversation  with  which  the 
meal  passed.  Only  once  did  they  look  over  the  prec- 
ipice upon  the  edge  of  which  they  walked  so  lightly. 
She  ventured,  half-afraid,  to  ask  him  when  he  thought 
of  leaving  New  York.  His  answer  showed  that  he, 
too,  had  been  thinking  deeply  of  the  matter  which 
lay  nearest  their  hearts. 

"  I  must  go  to  Denver  first,"  he  said.  "  All  my 
property  is  there,  you  know,  and  I  shall  have  to  ar- 
range about  it." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do?  " 

"  I  shall  sell  out  my  stock  in  the  mine,  and  resign 
my  position  as  vice-president.  It  may  take  a  week 
or  two  to  do  that.  After  I  have  converted  the  stock 
into  money,  it  will  be  necessary  to  put  it  into  some 
good  security,  bonds  probably,  which  will  require 
no  attention.  That  will  leave  me  free  to  go  abroad, 
and  stay  as  long  as  I  please,  without  having  to 
bother  about  business  affairs.  We  can  go  to  Egypt, 
to  Persia,  to  India,  to  Japan,  and  when  we  come 
back  —  "  He  hesitated,  halted. 


THE  BRUTE  99 

"  When  we  come  back !  Can  we  ever  come  back, 
dear?  "  she  asked  timidly. 

"  Of  course  we  can.  Your  husband  will  know  that 
we  love  each  other ;  and  surely  he  will  make  it  pos- 
sible for  us  to  be  married.  After  all,  you  have 
never  been  happy  with  him.  He  should  be  glad  to 
see  you  happy  with  someone  else." 

The  matter-of-fact  way  in  which  he  spoke  of  their 
future  jarred  upon  her.  It  was  one  thing  to  dream 
of  running  away  to  some  imagined  country  of  palms 
and  eternal  summer,  in  an  ecstasy  of  love,  but  the 
details,  the  sordid  necessities  of  the  thing,  seemed 
hard  and  cruel,  even  when  viewed  through  the  rosy 
spectacles  of  love.  To  think  of  coming  back  to  New 
York  and  the  chilly  isolation  of  the  social  outcast 
did  not  appeal  to  her  —  it  was  like  awakening  from 
the  dream  to  realities  anything  but  pleasant.  He 
must  have  seen  her  distaste,  or  felt  it,  for  he  changed 
the  subject  abruptly,  merely  remarking  that  he  had 
decided  to  go  to  Denver  that  night. 

"  To-night  ?  "  she  asked  —  "  Why  to-night  ?  You 
have  only  just  come  from  there." 

"  The  sooner  I  go,  the  better.  Matters  are  in 
such  shape  now  that  I  can  sell  out  my  interests 


100  THE  BRUTE 

quickly.  I  found  that  out,  while  I  was  there.  If 
I  wait,  it  may  be  more  difficult.  The  company  is 
thinking  of  taking  over  some  new  properties,  and 
that  will  require  considerable  money.  I  had  better 
go  at  once." 

She  trembled  at  the  thought  of  what  it  all  meant, 
but  said  no  word  to  discourage  him.  Somehow  the 
very  success  which  had  crowned  her  dreams  now 
seemed  to  make  them  less  beautiful  —  less  to  be  de- 
sired. Why  couldn't  they  just  go  on  loving  each 
other,  without  all  this  —  this  upsetting  of  things  ? 
She  suddenly  found  herself  blushing  at  the  realiza- 
tion of  just  what  it  was  that  her  thoughts  actually 
meant. 

The  run  back  to  town  was  cheerless  and  cold,  and 
singularly  symbolic  of  her  state  of  mind.  The 
brightness  of  the  morning  had  faded  before  the  bank 
of  ashen-colored  clouds  that  whirled  up  from  the 
southeast  with  a  suggestion  of  winter  in  their  form- 
less masses.  West  drove  the  car  at  top  speed,  as 
though  he,  too,  felt  the  approach  of  something  chill- 
ing, an  aftermath  to  their  dreams.  It  was  nearly 
five  when  they  reached  the  ferry  in  Long  Island  City, 
and  the  lights  in  the  stores  and  along  the  streets 


THE  BRUTE  101 

had  already  begun  to  sparkle  through  the  gathering 
mists  of  evening. 

"  We  should  have  come  back  earlier,"  said  Edith, 
a  bit  worried.  "  Bobbie  will  wonder  what  has  be- 
come of  me."  She  had  left  the  child  in  Alice's  care, 
the  nurse  being  out,  and  knew  that  the  latter  would 
be  anxious  to  get  back  to  the  boarding-house  and 
dinner.  There  was  her  own  evening  meal  to 
prepare  as  well.  At  once  all  the  realities  of  life 
arose  to  reach  out  to  her,  and  draw  her  back  to  her 
old  routine. 

"  We  can  easily  make  it  by  half-past  five,"  said 
West,  as  they  turned  from  Thirty-fourth  Street  into 
Madison  Avenue.  "  What  time  will  Donald  be 
home?  " 

"  A  little  after  five,  I  suppose.  We  shall  prob- 
ably find  him  at  home  when  we  get  there." 

They  drove  up  to  the  house  just  as  Donald  was 
ascending  the  steps.  Edith  felt  an  overpowering 
sense  of  guilt  as  he  helped  her  from  the  machine ;  she 
said  good-by  to  West  rather  hastily,  as  she  stood 
beside  her  husband  on  the  sidewalk.  Nothing  was 
said  about  the  proposed  trip  to  Denver;  Donald 
asked  them  about  their  day's  outing,  hoped  they  had 


102  THE  BRUTE 

had  a  pleasant  time ;  further  than  that  there  was  no 
conversation.  As  the  motor  rolled  off,  West  looked 
back  and  nodded,  and  in  a  moment  Edith  found  her- 
self ascending  the  elevator  with  her  husband,  wonder- 
ing if,  after  all,  the  experience  of  the  day  had  not 
been  a  strange  dream. 

It  seemed  queer,  unreal,  to  come  down  to  the 
commonplace  things  of  life.  Potatoes  had  to  be 
peeled,  a  steak  cooked,  all  the  details  of  the  prepara- 
tion of  their  simple  dinner.  Bobbie  was  cross  and 
hungry,  and  hung  about  her  skirts  as  she  moved  to 
and  fro  in  the  kitchen.  Alice  had  hurried  away, 
with  a  rather  nasty  remark  concerning  her  long  stay. 
More  than  ever  she  realized  that  life  —  her  life  — 
was  so  full  of  things  that  meant  nothing  to  her,  so 
barren  of  those  that  really  counted.  She  placed 
the  dinner  upon  the  table  with  a  heart  full  of  bitter- 
ness, but  she  showed  nothing  of  it  to  Donald. 

He  was  full  of  his  new  venture  in  the  glass  busi- 
ness. 'A  friend  by  the  name  of  Forbes  had  come  to 
him  that  afternoon  with  some  patents  for  making 
glass  tiling;  there  was  a  fortune  in  it,  he  rattled  on, 
and  she  listened,  only  half-comprehending  what  it 
was  all  about.  She  had  always  tried  to  take  an  inter- 


THE  BRUTE  103 

est  in  her  husband's  business  affairs,  but,  to- 
night, her  heart  was  too  full  of  other  things 
—  things  that  alternately  lifted  her  up  into  realms 
of  hitherto  unknown  happiness,  and  then  dropped 
her  into  the  black  depths  of  despair.  After  all,  it 
would  soon  be  over,  she  reflected,  and  then,  fright- 
ened by  her  thoughts,  put  them  from  her,  and  choked 
down  her  dinner  with  a  strange  sense  of  desolation. 
Billy  was  gone  —  Billy,  who  had  filled  her  days  and 
nights  with  a  new  joy  of  living.  Gone  —  gone! 
Suppose  something  were  to  happen  to  him!  The 
thought  that  she  might  never  see  him  again  fright- 
ened her. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ONE  evening,  about  two  weeks  after  West  had 
left  New  York  for  Denver,  Alice  Pope, 
Edith's  sister,  came  down  to  the  Roxborough  for  the 
purpose  of  spending  the  evening. 

The  two  girls  were  very  much  alike  in  tempera- 
ment and  training  and  had  always  been  great  friends, 
confiding  to  each  other  most  of  the  affairs  of  their 
rather  uneventful  existence.  Alice  was  two  years 
younger  than  Edith,  and  while  not  so  handsome  a 
woman,  was  the  stronger  nature  of  the  two;  as  was 
evidenced  by  her  somewhat  more  firmly  molded  chin, 
her  lips,  less  full  than  Edith's,  and  her  gray  eyes, 
which,  set  somewhat  more  closely  together,  gave  to 
her  face  an  expression  of  shrewdness  and  determina- 
tion only  relieved  by  her  good-natured  and  rather 
large  mouth. 

She  was  not  a  frequent  visitor  at  the  Rogers' 
apartment,  at  least  in  the  evening,  as  she  and  Donald 
did  not  get  along  very  well  —  they  were  good  enough 
friends,  but  neither  found  the  other  very  congenial. 

104 


THE  BRUTE  105 

Alice  thought  Donald  hard  and  unsympathetic,  a 
feeling  which  arose  largely  from  the  tales  of  wo 
with  which  Edith  so  frequently  regaled  her.  Donald, 
feeling  this  attitude  of  criticism,  and  too  proud  to 
attempt  to  controvert  it,  remained  silent,  which  but 
convinced  Alice  the  more  of  his  lack  of  warmth  and 
geniality.  Thus  the  two  preserved  a  sort  of  armed 
neutrality,  the  effect  of  which  was  to  keep  them  for- 
ever at  arm's  length. 

Edith  was  in  a  state  of  extreme  nervousness,  and 
even  the  pretense  of  looking  at  a  magazine  hardly 
served  to  conceal  the  fact  from  Donald  —  he  would 
inevitably  have  noticed  it,  had  he  not  been  busily  oc- 
cupied at  his  desk. 

The  cause  of  her  nervousness  reposed  safely  within 
the  bosom  of  her  dress.  It  was  a  letter  from  West 
which  had  come  for  her,  three  days  before,  and  its 
contents  had  caused  her  the  gravest  concern.  She  felt 
glad  that  Alice  was  coming  —  glad  that  Donald  had 
decided  to  go  out  for  a  stroll.  She  had  been  in- 
wardly debating  the  advisability  of  taking  her  sister 
into  her  confidence,  when  the  door-bell  rang. 

It  was  about  eight  o'clock,  and  Donald  was  just 
going  out  to  post  his  letters. 


106  THE  BRUTE 

"  Hello,  Sis ! "  said  Alice,  as  she  came  in,  then 
she  nodded  to  Donald. 

"  Good-evening,  Alice,"  Edith  replied.  "  Where's 
mother?  I  thought  she  was  coming  with  you." 

"  She'll  be  along  presently."  The  girl  took  off 
her  long  pony-skin  coat  and  threw  it  carelessly  upon 
the  couch.  "  She  stopped  at  Mrs.  Harrison's  for 
a  few  minutes  to  return  a  book  she  had  borrowed." 
She  shivered  slightly.  "Pretty  cold,  isn't  it? 
Never  knew  such  a  late  spring." 

Edith  turned  to  Donald,  who  was  putting  on  his 
coat.  "  Get  some  quinine  capsules,  Donald  — -  two 
grain.  Bobbie's  cold  is  worse  to-night." 

"Have  you  had  the  doctor?"  inquired  her  hus- 
band. 

"  Oh,  no,  it  isn't  as  bad  as  that.  Just  a  little 
fever." 

"  Very  well.  I'll  be  back  presently."  He  took  up 
his  hat  and  went  out. 

Edith,  instead  of  joining  her  sister,  began  to  walk 
aimlessly  about  the  room.  She  had  with  difficulty 
concealed  her  agitation  from  Donald,  and,  now  that 
he  had  gone,  she  still  could  not  decide  whether  or  not 
it  would  be  wisdom  on  her  part  to  confide  in  her  sis- 


THE  BRUTE  107 

ter.     She  felt  the  necessity  of  confiding  in  someone. 

Alice  presently  observed  the  nervousness,  and 
commented  upon  it  in  her  usual  frank  way.  "  For 
heaven's  sake,  Edith,"  she  remarked,  "  sit  down. 
Don't  walk  about  like  that.  You  make  me  nervous. 
What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyway?" 

"  Oh,  nothing !  "  Edith  threw  herself  dispiritedly 
into  a  chair,  and,  with  an  expression  which  bespoke 
an  utter  weariness  of  spirit,  gazed  moodily  at  her 
hands,  roughened  and  red  from  the  washing  of  dishes. 

"Nothing?"  said  Alice,  looking  at  her  closely. 
"  You  look  as  though  you  had  lost  your  last 
friend." 

"  Perhaps  I  have."  The  answer  was  significant, 
although  to  Alice  it  meant  nothing. 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  that  ?  "  she  inquired.  "  I 
think  you  might  try  to  be  a  little  more  agreeable. 
It  wouldn't  hurt  you  any.  If  you  are  going  to  sit 
here  and  hand  out  chunks  of  gloom  all  the  evening, 
I  think  I'll  go  home."  It  was  characteristic  of  Alice 
to  be  determinedly  cheerful  on  all  occasions,  a  trait 
born  not  so  much  of  any  inherent  optimism  as  of  a 
dislike  for  being  made  uncomfortable. 

Edith  looked  at  her  hesitatingly.     "  Don't  mind 


108  THE  BRUTE 

me,  Alice,"  she  presently  observed,  in  an  apologetic 
voice,  "  I'm  worried." 

"  Do  you  suppose  I  can't  see  that  ?  You've  been 
acting  like  an  Ibsen  play  for  the  past  three  days. 
Why  don't  you  get  it  off  your  mind  ?  "  She  hitched 
her  chair  about,  and  faced  her  sister  with  a  curious 
look.  "  I'm  safe  enough.  You  ought  to  know  that 
by  this  time.  Come  —  out  with  it.  What's  wrong  ? 
Let's  have  the  awful  details." 

"  It  isn't  anything  to  joke  about,"  remarked  Edith, 
not  entirely  relishing  her  sister's  tone. 

"I'm  not  joking — not  a  bit  of  it.  If  you  are 
in  any  trouble,  Sis,  you  know  you  can  count  on  me. 
I  may  be  able  to  help  you  out ;  two  heads  are  better 
than  one,  you  know." 

With  a  sudden  glance,  Edith  decided  to  take  her 
sister  into  her  confidence.  Her  question,  quick  and 
unexpected,  aroused  Alice  to  new  interest.  "  Do 
you  like  Billy  West?"  she  asked. 

"Billy  West?  Of  course  I  do.  What's  he  got 
to  do  with  it?" 

"Everything!" 

Alice  hitched  her  chair  still  closer,  and  looked  at 
her  sister  in  surprise.  "  You  don't  mean  to 


THE  BRUTE  109 

say  —  ?  "  she  began,  then  concluded  her  remark  with 
a  significant  whistle. 

"  Alice,"  said  her  sister,  "  you've  known  Billy  for 
a  long  time.  You  know  he  is  one  of  Donald's  best 
friends  — " 

"  I  always  thought  so.  He  must  like  one  of  you 
pretty  well,  judging  by  the  amount  of  time  he  spends 
here." 

"  You  didn't  know,  perhaps,  that  he  was  very 
much  in  love  with  me,  years  ago,  before  he  went  to 
Colorado." 

"  I  always  suspected  it.  Pity  you  didn't  marry 
him.  He  made  about  half  a  million  out  there,  didn't 
he,  in  that  gold  mine?" 

"  I  don't  know  just  what  he  made.  That  has 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  Ever  since  he  came  back  to 
New  York  to  live,  three  months  ago,  I've  seen  a 
great  deal  of  him  — " 

"  I  should  say  you  had.  If  I  hadn't  thought  him 
such  a  good  friend  of  Donald's  I'd  have  been  sus- 
picious long  ago.  I've  envied  you  often  enough, 
your  auto  rides,  and  luncheons  at  the  Knickerbocker, 
and  dinners,  and  theater  parties.  He  doesn't  mind 
spending  his  money  —  that's  one  thing  sure,  but  I 


110  THE  BRUTE 

never  thought  —  "  She  paused  and  looked  at  her 
sister  with  renewed  interest.  "  Is  he  in  love  with 
you  now?  " 

"  Yes."  Edith  spoke  slowly  —  almost  as  though 
to  herself.  The  thought  was  apparently  not  dis- 
tasteful to  her. 

"You  don't  say  so!  The  plot  thickens.  So 
that's  why  he's  been  here  morning,  noon  and  night. 
Does  Donald  know?  " 

"Donald!     Of  course  not." 

"  Has  Billy  said  anything?  " 

"Said  anything?     To  whom?" 

"  To  you,  of  course.  Has  he  told  you  that  he  still 
loves  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  That  wasn't  exactly  fair  of  him."  [Alice  was  a 
good  deal  of  a  Puritan  at  heart,  and  not  at  all  lack- 
ing in  frankness.  "  He  ought  not  to  have  done  it. 
I'm  not  so  strong  for  Donald,  goodness  knows,  but 
it  strikes  me  as  being  pretty  rough  on  him,  just  the 
same.  Don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  I  told  Billy  so." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  he  had  tried  his  best  to  keep  from  tell- 


THE  BRUTE  111 

ing  me,  all  these  months.  He  went  away,  once,  in 
April,  you  remember,  and  stayed  nearly  a  month,  to 
try  to  forget,  but  it  didn't  do  any  good.  He  says 
he  loves  me  more  every  day,  and  at  last  he  had  to 
tell  me  of  it  —  he  couldn't  keep  from  it  any  longer." 

"Well,  what  good  has  it  done?  He  has  sense 
enough  to  see  that  it's  perfectly  hopeless,  hasn't  he  ?" 

"  No,  that's  the  worst  of  it." 

Alice  sat  back  in  her  chair  in  alarm.  "  Good 
heavens,  Edith,"  she  gasped,  "  you  must  be  losing 
your  mind." 

"Why?" 

"It  isn't  possible  you  are  thinking  of — "  She 
paused  and  left  her  sentence  incomplete,  gazing  in- 
tently at  her  sister.  "  Do  you  care  for  him?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Sometimes  I  think  I  do.  You 
know  what  my  life  has  been  here.  You  know  what 
it  is  going  to  be,  for  years.  I  suppose  you  will 
think  me  very  disloyal  and  wicked,  but,  when  a 
woman's  whole  existence  is  made  up,  year  after  year, 
of  wishing  for  all  the  things  that  make  life  worth 
while,  and  never,  never  being  able  to  afford  them, 
her  love  for  her  husband  seems  somehow  to  become 
dried  up,  and  unimportant." 


112  THE  BRUTE 

"  H-m  —  I  suppose  it  does.  I've  never  yet 
got  to  the  point,  myself,  where  I  can  really  enjoy 
making  over  my  last  season's  clothes.  I  try  to  think 
they  look  as  good  as  new,  but  they  never  do.  I'm 
afraid  I  haven't  enough  imagination.  But  all  that 
doesn't  make  any  difference  now.  You're  married 
to  Donald,  and  you've  got  to  make  the  best  of  it. 
What  a  pity  you  didn't  choose  Billy!  Half  a  mil- 
lion —  hm-m  —  it  sounds  like  heaven  to  me.  I  won- 
der if  he  wouldn't  like  me  as  a  second  choice,"  she 
rattled  on.  "  We  certainly  ought  to  try  to  keep 
that  money  in  the  family,  somehow." 

"  Alice,  don't  talk  such  nonsense.  It  isn't  Billy's 
money  I'm  thinking  of." 

"  If  you  can  persuade  yourself  that  that's  true," 
said  her  sister  grimly,  "  you  really  must  be  in  love 
with  him.  But  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it? 
It's  absurd." 

Edith  stood  up  and  walked  nervously  over  to 
the  desk,  where  she  began  idly  fumbling  with  the 
papers  upon  it.  Presently  she  turned  to  her  sister 
who  was  regarding  her  with  an  inquiring  look. 

"  He  —  he  wants  me  to  leave  Donald,"  she  cried, 
in  a  half-frightened  way. 


THE  BRUTE  113 

"  No !  What  a  nerve ! "  Alice  seemed  to  re- 
gard the  whole  affair  as  a  huge  joke. 

"  He  says  that  I  am  wearing  myself  out,"  con- 
tinued her  sister,  "  that  I  am  wasting  all  the  youth, 
and  sweetness  and  joy  of  life,  grinding  on  here  in 
this  hopeless  situation.  He  says  that,  if  Donald 
really  loved  me,  he  would  see  that,  too." 

"  It  sounds  like  the  latest  best  seller.  The  hero 
always  says  that  to  the  neglected  wife,  doesn't  he?  " 

"  If  you  are  going  to  make  fun  of  me,"  remarked 
Edith  with  a  show  of  anger,  "  I  think  we  had  better 
drop  the  subject." 

Alice  got  up  and  went  over  to  her  sister.  "  Oh,  come 
now,  Edith,"  she  said  kindly,  "  don't  get  so  grouchy. 
I  don't  see  anything  so  tragic  in  all  this.  Suppose 
Billy  does  love  you  —  what  does  he  propose  to  do 
about  it  —  run  away  with  you  ?  " 

"  Yes."  Her  sister's  quiet  tones  had  a  ring  of 
earnestness  to  them,  of  finality  almost,  that  was 
alarming. 

"  The  idea !  Billy  West  of  all  people !  I  can't 
believe  it.  I  suppose  you  indignantly  refused." 

"  No,  I  didn't.  He  told  me  how  lonely  he  was ; 
how  bad  it  all  made  him  feel;  how  it  seemed  so  dis- 


114  THE  BRUTE 

loyal  to  Donald,  but  he  —  he  couldn't  help  it.  He 
said  I  was  everything  in  the  world  to  him  —  that  he 
had  never  loved  any  other  woman,  and  never 
would—" 

"  Oh,  I  can  imagine  what  he  said,"  interrupted 
Alice.  "  That's  easy.  The  question  is,  what  did 
you  say?  " 

Edith  looked  at  her  in  a  frightened  way,  seemingly 
for  a  moment  unwilling  to  meet  her  glance.  "  Alice," 
she  said,  slowly  and  very  softly,  "I  —  I  told  him  I 
would  go." 

"  Edith,  you  really  can't  mean  it." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Rogers,  nodding  her  head 
slowly.  "  Yes.  That  was  over  two  weeks  ago. 
We  had  gone  down  to  Garden  City  in  the  auto,  and 
had  luncheon  there.  It  was  a  wonderful  day  —  so 
clear,  and  bright  and  beautiful.  I  had  had  a  row 
with  Donald,  the  night  before.  It  was  about  go- 
ing away  this  summer.  When  I  met  Billy  the  next 
day,  everything  seemed  so  different.  He  was  telling 
me  about  a  wonderful  trip  he  was  planning,  to  India, 
and  the  East.  We  talked  it  over  like  two  children, 
and  then  all  of  a  sudden  he  said  he  wouldn't  —  he 
couldn't  go,  unless  I  went,  too  —  " 


THE  BRUTE  115 

"  It  sounds  fine."  Alice's  voice  was  not  approv- 
ing. "  But  what  about  Bobbie?  " 

Her  sister  passed  her  hand  over  her  forehead  and 
shivered  slightly,  glancing  as  she  did  so  at  the 
door  of  the  adjoining  bedroom.  "Can't  you  see 
that  is  why  I  cannot  do  it  ?  "  she  cried  with  bitter- 
ness. 

"  Oh  —  you  aren't  going  to,  then !  "  exclaimed 
Alice  in  a  tone  of  relief.  "  I  thought  you  said  you 
had  agreed  to  go." 

"  I  did.  I  must  have  been  mad.  I  didn't  think 
of  Bobbie,  or  of  Donald,  or  anything,  except  that 
Billy  and  I  loved  each  other,  and  were  going  away 
together,  to  be  happier  than  I  had  ever  dreamed  of 
being  in  all  my  life.  It  all  seemed  so  wonderful  — 
almost  like  being  born  over  again  and  living  a  new 
existence  in  a  new  and  happier  world.  Then  when 
I  got  home  — "  She  hesitated,  and  a  look  of  pain 
crossed  her  face. 

"  You  weakened  on  the  proposition,  of  course. 
That's  the  effect  of  habit.  It's  a  wonderful  thing 
how  it  keeps  us  in  the  straight  and  narrow  path.  I 
once  heard  a  divorced  woman  say  that  it  took  her 
over  a  year  to  get  out  of  the  habit  of  being  married 


116  THE  BRUTE 

to  her  first  husband.  What  did  Billy  say  when  you 
told  him  you  had  changed  your  mind?  I'll  bet  he 
was  furious." 

Again  Mrs.  Rogers  seemed  unable  to  meet  her 
sister's  keen  gaze.  "  I  haven't  told  him,"  she  ex- 
claimed, her  voice  little  more  than  a  whisper. 

"  Good  heavens !     Why  not?  " 

"  Because  he  had  gone  away.  He  went  to  Denver 
that  same  night.  Didn't  you  know?  " 

"  Now  that  you  mention  it,  I  believe  I  did  hear 
you  say  that  he  was  out  of  town.  I  thought  it 
strange  I  hadn't  seen  anything  of  him,  lately. 
What  did  he  go  to  Denver  for?  I  must  say,  it  seems 
rather  inconsiderate  of  him,  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

"  He  went  to  Denver,  Alice,  because  his  property 
is  there.  He  intends  to  sell  out  his  interest  in  the 
mine,  and  close  up  his  affairs  so  that  we  can  go 
away  together,  don't  you  see?  He  said  he  was  go- 
ing to  dispose  of  everything  he  had,  and  put  all  the 
money  in  bonds,  so  that  he  would  be  free  to  go  away, 
and  stay  away  the  rest  of  his  life,  if  he  felt  like  it." 

"  Well,  I  must  say,"  cried  her  sister,  "  he  seems  to 
be  in  earnest,  at  any  rate,  even  if  you  are  not." 


THE  BRUTE  117 

"  Alice,  Billy  West  loves  me  as  truly  and  deeply 
as  any  woman  was  ever  loved. 

"  Then  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  treating  his 
love  pretty  shabbily.  Why  don't  you  tell  him  the 
truth?  " 

"  It  wasn't  until  after  he  had  gone  away  that  I 
began  to  realize  what  a  terrific  mistake  it  would  all 
be  —  that  I  would  probably  ruin  his  life  as  well  as 
my  own.  I  ought  to  have  written  him  at  once,  and 
told  him  I  couldn't  do  what  I  had  agreed." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  suppose  I  was  weak.  I  hadn't 
the  courage.  Every  day  I  put  it  off  till  the  next." 

"  Well,  it  isn't  too  late  yet,  is  it?  If  I  were  you, 
I  would  sit  right  down  and  write  him  a  letter." 

Edith  flung  herself  despairingly  into  a  chair. 
"  I  don't  know  whether  it  is  too  late  or  not,"  she 
wailed.  "  That's  what  is  worrying  me  so.  I  haven't 
slept  for  three  nights  —  ever  since  I  got  his  last  let- 
ter." 

Alice  went  over  to  her  sister's  chair,  and  put  her 
arm  about  her  shoulder.  "  Look  here,  Edith,"  she 
said,  her  tone  showing  plainly  her  anxiety  — 
"what's  all  this  about,  anyway?  You  seem  to  be 


118  THE  BRUTE 

terribly  upset.  I  can't  make  head  or  tail  of  the 
matter.  What's  worrying  you  so?" 

"  Three  days  ago,"  said  Edith,  with  quivering  lips, 
"  I  got  a  letter  from  him.  He'd  been  writing  me 
every  day  up  to  then.  That  letter  told  me  that  he 
had  appendicitis,  and  had  gone  to  a  hospital  in  Den- 
ver to  be  operated  on.  It  was  written  last  Thurs- 
day —  that's  six  days  ago.  Since  then,  I  haven't 
heard  a  single  word." 

Alice  appeared  greatly  relieved.  "Is  that  all?" 
she  cried.  "  I  shouldn't  worry  about  it,  if  I  were 
you.  When  anyone  is  lying  flat  on  his  back  in  a 
hospital,  he  doesn't  feel  much  like  writing  letters. 
Appendicitis  isn't  very  dangerous.  I've  known  any 
number  of  people  that  have  had  it." 

"  I  know,  but  I  can't  help  worrying.  I  don't  know 
what  to  do." 

"  I  should  think  the  first  thing  you  would  do 
would  be  to  sit  down  and  write  him  that  letter." 

"  I  don't  dare  to." 

"  I  don't  see  why  not." 

"  Suppose  something  has  happened  to  him.  How 
can  I  know  who  might  get  the  letter?  I  don't  dare 
to  write  the  things  I've  got  to  say  to  him." 


THE  BRUTE  119 

Alice  considered  a  moment.  "  No,  I  don't  sup- 
pose you'd  better.  I  didn't  think  of  that.  Can't 
you  find  out,  some  way,  how  he  is?  " 

"  I  don't  know  a  soul  in  Denver." 

Her  sister  paused  for  a  moment,  thinking  deeply. 
"  What  is  to-day,  Edith?  "  she  suddenly  inquired  — 
"The  twentieth?" 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so.     Why?  " 

"  Then  Emerson  Hall  got  to  Denver  last  night. 
He  wrote  me  from  St.  Louis  that  he  was  going  there 
this  week,  and  would  arrive  the  night  of  the  nine- 
teenth. He  expects  to  be  there  several  weeks.  I 
might  ask  him." 

"  Will  you?  "  Mrs.  Rogers  looked  at  her  eagerly. 
"  I  must  find  out  somehow.  It  seems  terrible,  not 
to  write  to  him,  now  that  he  is  so  sick.  I  —  I  care 
a  lot  for  him,  Alice,  even  if  I  have  decided  not  to 
run  away  with  him.  Do  you  think  Mr.  Hall  will 
do  it  for  you  ?  " 

"Who,  Emerson?  Of  course  he  will.  He'd  do 
anything  for  me.  And,  besides.  I  think  he  knows 
Billy  slightly.  They're  both  Columbia  men,  you 
know." 

"  Send  him  a  wire.     Ask  him  to  go  to  the  hospital 


120  THE  BRUTE 

at  once  and  find  out  how  Billy  is.     I've  got  to  know." 

"  All  right,"  said  Alice,  as  she  made  her  way 
to  the  desk.  "Got  a  blank?  " 

"  I  think  there  are  some  here."  Edith  accom- 
panied her  sister  to  the  desk.  "  Here's  one."  She 
handed  Alice  the  blank. 

"  What  shall  I  say  ?  "  asked  Alice,  as  she  seated 
herself  at  the  desk. 

"  Just  ask  him  to  go  to  the  City  Hospital  and  in- 
quire for  William  West.  I'll  get  the  elevator  boy 
to  take  it."  She  stepped  out  into  the  hall  and 
pressed  the  electric  button.  "  How  much  is  it  for 
ten  words  —  do  you  know  ?  "  she  asked  as  she  re- 
entered  the  room. 

"  Haven't  the  least  idea,"  said  her  sister  as  she 
handed  her  the  message  she  had  written. 

Edith  glanced  at  it,  took  a  dollar  bill  from  her 
purse,  and  gave  it  and  the  message  to  the  elevator 
boy  who  had  answered  her  ring.  "  You'll  probably 
get  the  answer  in  the  morning,  Alice."  She  turned 
to  her  sister  as  she  closed  the  door.  "  You'll  bring  it 
right  down  to  me,  won't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  And  not  a  word  to  Donald  —  that  goes  without 


THE  BRUTE  121 

saying.  I  wouldn't  have  him  know  for  anything." 
"  All  right.  Billy  is  probably  all  right  by  this 
time,  anyhow.  As  soon  as  you  know  that  he  is,  I 
advise  you  to  sit  down  and  write  him  a  nice,  sensible 
letter  —  tell  him  you  have  reconsidered,  and  all  that. 
You  certainly  owe  it  to  him." 

"  I  will,  Alice.  I  ought  to  have  done  it  long  ago. 
There's  the  bell,"  she  added,  wearily.  "  It's  prob- 
ably mother. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IT  was  on  a  cold  raw  morning,  that  William  West 
arrived  in  Denver,  and,  as  he  made  his  way 
slowly  from  the  sleeper  to  the  waiting  'bus,  he  shiv- 
ered under  his  heavy  overcoat.  He  was  not  glad  to 
be  back.  Denver  and  all  its  associations  had  faded 
into  the  pale  background  of  past  memories  —  his 
face  was  set  toward  the  future,  a  future  that  prom- 
ised all  that  joy  of  living,  of  loving  and  of  being 
loved  in  return,  which  he  so  eagerly  desired. 

It  cut  him  bitterly  to  think  of  his  treachery  to 
Donald,  a  treachery  in  no  way  lessened  by  the  fact 
that  love  was  its  motive,  yet  he  argued  to  his  con- 
science that  the  future  happiness  of  both  Edith  and 
himself  was  at  stake  and  demanded  of  him  even  the 
sacrifice  of  his  friendship. 

He  did  not  go  to  his  accustomed  rooms  at  the 
Prairie,  for  he  intended  to  make  his  stay  in  the  city 
as  short  and  uneventful  as  possible.  There  was  but 
one  purpose  in  his  mind  —  to  dispose  of  his  hold- 
ings in  the  mine,  resign  his  office  as  vice-president 


THE  BRUTE  123 

of  the  company  and  invest  his  entire  fortune  in  safe 
and  desirable  bonds,  upon  the  interest  of  which  he 
would  be  able  to  carry  out  his  future  plans  with 
no  greater  attention  to  business  affairs  than  that 
involved  in  clipping  off  his  quarterly  or  half-yearly 
coupons.  Therefore  he  held  aloof  from  his  old 
friends,  his  former  associations.  If  he  should  let 
the  men  at  the  club  know  of  his  presence  in  the  city, 
they  would  not  only  take  up  a  great  deal  of  his  time, 
but  would  inevitably  inquire  into  his  plans  in  a  way 
that  might  easily  prove  embarrassing.  He  there- 
fore betook  himself  to  a  quiet  hotel,  not  usually 
patronized  by  the  traveling  public,  and,  after  a 
smoking-hot  breakfast,  proceeded  to  the  offices  of  the 
company. 

West  had  anticipated  that  his  associates  in  the 
Lone  Star  Mining  Company  would  be  the  most  prob- 
able purchasers  of  his  holdings  and  for  this  reason 
had  determined  to  offer  them  the  first  opportunity; 
to  buy.  His  interview  with  Atkinson,  the  president, 
was  entirely  satisfactory.  While  expressing  deep 
regret  at  West's  desire  to  withdraw  from  active  par- 
ticipation in  the  business,  the  astute  Boston  man 
grasped  at  once  the  opportunity  to  acquire  at,  or 


124  THE  BRUTE 

near,  par,  a  block  of  stock  which  would  be  worth 
double  its  present  value  in  the  course  of  a  few  years. 
He  at  once  closed  with  West's  offer,  taking  an  op- 
tion on  his  holdings  for  ten  days,  during  which  time 
he  expected  to  arrange  for  the  necessary  capital 
to  carry  out  the  purchase.  A  meeting  of  the  board 
was  called  to  act  upon  West's  resignation,  and,  when 
the  latter  left  the  office  for  luncheon,  he  had,  as  far 
as  was  possible,  for  the  moment,  completed  the  busi- 
ness that  had  brought  him  to  Denver. 

The  following  ten  days  were  a  nightmare.  There 
was  nothing  to  do,  but  write  to  Edith,  it  seemed,  and 
to  read  her  daily  letters  over  and  over,  drawing  from 
them  new  inspiration  for  his  plans  with  each  re- 
reading. Slowly  the  ten  days  passed.  Atkinson  re- 
ported entire  success  in  his  plans  for  the  syndicate 
he  was  forming  to  take  over  West's  holdings ;  within 
a  week  the  latter  expected  to  be  flying  eastward, 
leaving  the  matter  of  reinvesting  his  money  until  he 
should  reach  New  York. 

His  anxiety  to  return  as  quickly  as  possible  was 
accentuated  by  traces  of  a  change  of  heart  which  he 
fancied  he  detected  in  some  of  Edith's  later  letters. 
She  had  spoken  of  her  fears  for  the  success  of  their 


THE  BRUTE  125 

plans  —  her  duty  to  her  husband,  her  boy.  "  Poor 
little  girl,"  thought  West,  "  she  needs  me  with  her,  to 
keep  up  her  courage  in  these  most  trying  hours  of 
her  life." 

The  night  of  the  ninth  day  he  went  to  bed  early, 
with  a  dull,  insistent  pain  in  his  right  side  which 
he  attributed  to  a  cold,  a  result  of  the  raw,  unseason- 
able weather.  In  the  morning  the  pain  had  in- 
creased ;  he  had  passed  a  restless,  broken  night,  and 
arose  feeling  dizzy  and  half-sick.  He  determined 
to  consult  a  doctor,  but  not  until  he  had  completed 
his  business. 

At  ten  o'clock  he  met  Atkinson  and  his  associates, 
and  within  an  hour  the  stock  had  been  delivered,  and 
the  certified  check  for  close  to  half  a  million  dollars 
deposited  in  the  bank.  A  great  sense  of  relief  filled 
his  mind  —  he  was  free,  to  seek  happiness  wherever 
in  the  broad  expanse  of  the  world  he  might  find  it. 
Yet  beneath  all  his  joy  —  his  exultation,  there 
throbbed  a  double  sense  of  pain,  the  dull  gnaw- 
ing of  conscience  at  his  heart,  and  the  sharp,  insist- 
ent throbbing  that,  knife-life,  shot  through  his  right 
side.  Clearly  this  latter  was  not  a  matter  to  be 
trifled  with.  He  turned  into  the  first  doctor's  of- 


126  THE  BRUTE 

fice  that  met  his  eye,  and  joined  the  other  unfor- 
tunates waiting  in  the  anteroom. 

The  doctor  would  see  him  presently,  the  low- 
voiced  maid  informed  him.  He  sat  bolt  upright  in 
an  uncomfortable  chair  and  gripped  his  hands  to- 
gether fiercely  as  the  sharp  pangs  of  pain  tore  at 
his  vitals.  Would  these  people  never  be  through  ?  he 
wondered.  From  within  the  doctor's  office,  shut 
off  by  glass  doors,  came  the  faint  echoes  of  conversa- 
tion ;  some  unfortunate,  no  doubt,  hearing  the  dread 
sentence  of  life  or  death,  or  perhaps  only  a  nervous 
woman,  being  prescribed  bread  pills  for  a  fancied  in- 
disposition. There  were  two  men  and  a  woman  wait- 
ing ahead  of  him.  They  looked  healthy  enough ;  he 
wondered  what  they  could  have  the  matter  with  them 
that  made  their  faces  so  grave. 

For  nearly  an  hour  he  was  forced  to  wait  in  an 
agony  of  mind  and  body,  until  his  turn  came,  and  his 
thoughts  were  the  thoughts  of  a  man  upon  whom  the 
hand  of  death  has  already  laid  its  icy  touch.  He 
knew  it  was  all  nonsense  —  engendered  of  pain- 
racked  nerves,  yet  his  conscience  smote  him,  and 
would  not  be  stilled.  The  pain  in  his  side  spelled 
disaster,  and  he  could  not  shake  off  the  thought.  He 


THE  BRUTE  127 

had  never  believed  in  the  direct  intervention  of  Provi- 
dence in  the  affairs  of  mankind,  yet  here  was  he,  at 
the  moment  when  all  his  future,  as  he  had  planned 
it,  lay  smiling  before  him,  stricken  with  an  illness 
which,  laugh  at  it  as  he  would,  he  could  not  help 
fearing  might  mean  an  end  to  all  his  hopes. 

He  sat  up  and  shook  his  head  with  a  quick,  nerv- 
ous motion  which  had  been  characteristic  of  him 
since  childhood.  This  was  all  the  height  of  folly,  he 
argued  —  the  natural  train  of  gloomy  thoughts 
which  resulted  from  his  surroundings.  Even  the 
faint  odor  of  carbolic  acid,  compounded  with  that 
of  other  unknown  chemicals,  was  enough  to  make  a 
man  feel  blue.  He  rose  as  the  maid  beckoned  to  him 
—  the  other  consultations  had  happily  been  short. 

Dr.  Oliver  was  a  man  of  few  words.  He  had  not 
time  for  more,  for  his  practice  was  one  of  the  larg- 
est in  the  city.  He  glanced  at  West's  pain-drawn 
face,  listened  to  his  few  words  of  explanation,  felt  his 
side  with  practiced  hands,  and  delivered  his  opinion 
in  a  few  terse  words.  "  Appendicitis,"  he  said 
quickly,  "  and  an  aggravated  case.  You  must  un- 
dergo an  operation  at  once." 

Somehow  or  other  West  felt  a  sudden  sense  of  re- 


128  THE  BRUTE 

lief  at  these  words.  After  all,  an  operation  for  ap- 
pendicitis was  not  such  a  serious  matter.  He  knew 
any  number  of  people  who  had  been  through  it.  "  I 
am  stopping  at  a  hotel,"  he  observed.  "  I  do  not 
live  in  Denver.  I  suppose  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  to 
a  hospital  at  once." 

"  By  all  means."  The  doctor  turned  to  his  desk 
telephone  and  called  a  number.  "  I  will  arrange  for 
an  operation  at  the  City  Hospital,  if  you  wish  it." 

"  Thank  you,"  replied  West,  "  I  do  wish  it." 

The  doctor  held  a  short  conversation  over  the 
telephone.  "  I  presume  you  can  go  to  the  hospital  at 
once?  "  he  inquired. 

West  nodded. 

"  I  will  send  for  a  carriage,"  the  doctor  went  on, 
as  he  drew  a  thermometer  from  a  leather  case  and 
placed  it  beneath  West's  tongue.  "  Your  case  is  an 
acute  one,  Mr.  West,  and  we  cannot  afford  to  lose 
any  time."  He  again  spoke  sharply  over  the  tele- 
phone, then,  bidding  West  bare  his  arm,  gave  him  a 
quick  hypodermic  injection  which  diffused  a  blessed 
sense  of  relief  through  every  nerve  of  his  pain-racked 
body.  He  sank  upon  a  couch,  and  awaited  the  com- 
ing of  the  carriage.  His  thoughts  were  no  longer 


THE  BRUTE  129 

gloomy.  He  seemed  to  be  floating  in  a  sea  of 
warmth,  which  caressed  him  pleasurably  and  filled 
him  with  a  delicious  feeling  of  well-being.  Even  the 
dull-figured  flowers  on  the  walls  of  the  doctor's  office 
seemed  alive,  and  glowing  with  color.  The  coming 
of  the  carriage  seemed  unimportant;  nothing,  in 
fact,  seemed  to  matter,  now  that  the  gnawing  of  that 
terrible  pain  had  left  him. 

It  was  Wednesday  afternoon  when  West  arrived 
at  the  City  Hospital,  and  within  two  hours  there- 
after the  operation  was  over,  and  he  slowly  returned 
to  a  sense  of  the  reality  of  life,  with  a  feeling  of 
deadly  nausea,  and  the  pain  once  more  throbbing  in 
his  right  side.  Over  him  bent  a  clear-eyed  nurse, 
sympathetic  as  to  his  comfort,  offering  him  a  glass 
of  water.  Presently  a  physician  joined  her.  West 
looked  at  them  without  interest  and  from  the  jum- 
bled impressions  of  the  day  once  more  passed  into  a 
dreamless  sleep. 

It  was  in  the  early  morning  that  he  first  began  to 
think  of  Edith.  Her  letters  would  be  awaiting  him 
at  his  hotel.  He  must  send  for  them  —  he  must 
write  to  her  and  tell  her  of  all  that  had  happened. 
He  felt  that  she  would  be  alarmed  at  not  hearing 


130  THE  BRUTE 

from  him,  for,  until  the  day  before,  he  had  not  failed 
to  post  a  letter  to  her  each  night,  telling  her  of  the 
events  of  the  day. 

In  response  to  his  repeated  requests,  the  nurse 
sent  a  messenger  boy  for  his  mail,  and,  when  the  lat- 
ter returned,  she  read  him  Edith's  letter  at  his  re- 
quest. He  could  not  read  it  himself  —  he  lay  flat 
on  his  back,  in  semi-darkness,  and  even  the  slight 
effort  of  moving  his  hands  seemed  to  send  innumer- 
able sharp  quivers  of  pain  through  every  portion  of 
his  body. 

The  nurse  read  the  letter  haltingly,  as  one  reads 
an  unfamiliar  handwriting;  it  was  signed,  like  all 
the  letters,  with  initials  only,  and  told  him  of  Edith's 
anxiety  to  see  him,  of  her  hopes  and  fears,  and  all 
the  other  foolish  things  that  women  write  to  men 
they  love.  To  him  it  seemed  a  message  from 
heaven,  for  he  loved  her  very  deeply,  and  her  slight- 
est word  became  a  treasure  to  him,  invested  with  a 
new  significance;  lifted  from  its  commonplace  sur- 
roundings ;  something  to  ponder  over,  and  think 
about  all  through  the  long,  weary  day.  He  sent  a 
reply,  treating  lightly  of  his  illness,  so  as  not  to 
alarm  her  needlessly.  The  nurse  carefully  wrote  it 


THE  BRUTE  131 

down  for  him  at  his  dictation.  He  hesitated  when  it 
came  to  telling  the  woman  the  address  —  he  did  not 
wish  to  compromise  Edith,  to  give  her  name  to  a 
stranger.  There  was  no  other  way,  however,  and, 
after  all,  he  believed  that,  within  a  month  at  the  out- 
side, they  would  be  standing  hand  in  hand  at  the 
taffrail  of  some  great  ocean  liner,  watching  the  tow- 
ering skyline  of  New  York  as  it  disappeared  in  the 
hazy  distance  along  with  their  troubles  and  cares. 
The  mere  fact  that  their  secret  was  known,  now,  to 
a  hospital  nurse,  could  do  no  harm ;  in  a  few  weeks 
all  the  world  would  know  it,  but  they  would  be  in 
each  other's  arms,  and  the  opinion  of  the  world 
would  not  matter  very  much. 

The  day  seemed  strangely  long  and  he  was  glad 
when  night  came,  and  with  it  some  respite  from  his 
pain^  He  felt  tired,  terribly  tired,  and  his  head 
throbbed  with  a  burning  fever.  They  gave  him 
things  to  make  him  sleep,  and  water  for  his  crack- 
ing lips.  As  the  evening  wore  on  even  the  thoughts 
of  the  morning's  letter  no  longer  interested  him. 
He  turned  his  face  to  the  wall,  and  tried  not  to  think 
of  anything  at  all.  After  a  while  he  slept,  while  the 
nurse  and  the  doctor  on  his  evening  round  spoke 


132  THE  BRUTE 

together  softly,  and  in  grave  tones,  with  many  anx- 
ious glances  in  his  direction. 

The  next  morning  his  fever  was  better,  and  the 
letter  brought  him  from  his  hotel  made  the  day  seem 
for  a  time  full  of  joy  and  brightness,  but  after  a 
little  while  a  great  sense  of  weariness  overcame  him. 
Nothing  seemed  to  matter  much ;  whether  he  lived  or 
died.  He  was  conscious  only  of  a  desire  to  sleep  — 
how  long,  even  though  forever,  he  did  not  care  in 
the  very  least. 

About  noon  he  was  roused  by  the  approach  of 
someone  toward  his  bed,  and  opened  his  eyes  to  see 
Doctor  Oliver  standing  beside  him.  The  doctor 
looked  very  grave  as  he  took  his  patient's  hand,  his 
fingers  mechanically  feeling  the  rapid,  weak  pulse. 
"  Mr.  West,*'  said  the  doctor,  "  I  think  you  should 
let  your  family  know  of  your  illness." 

West  tried  to  raise  his  hand,  then  fell  back  with 
a  sigh  of  weariness.  "  Am  I  as  sick  as  all  that  ?  " 
he  inquired  faintly,  as  he  gazed  into  the  doctor's  in- 
scrutable eyes. 

"  You  are  a  very  sick  man,  Mr.  West.  I  do  not 
wish  to  needlessly  alarm  you,  but  it  would  be  best 
to  communicate  with  your  people,  and  put  your  af- 


THE  BRUTE  133 

fairs  in  order,  so  that,  whatever  happens,  you  will 
be  ready  to  meet  it." 

The  sick  man  looked  at  the  doctor  with  a  long, 
intent  look.  His  lips  quivered,  his  hand  tightened 
fearfully  upon  the  one  that  held  it.  "  You  mean 
that  I  am  going  to  die  ?  "  he  asked  bravely.  "  Tell 
me  the  truth,  doctor.  I  would  rather  know."  The 
doctor  nodded  his  head  slowly,  but  made  no  other 
reply. 

West  was  a  long  time  in  realizing  the  truth,  yet  it 
seemed  as  though  he  had  always  known  it.  He  had 
never  quite  believed  that  all  the  happiness  he  looked 
forward  to  so  gladly  would  ever  really  come  true. 
It  seemed  almost  too  much  to  ask  of  fate.  And 
now  it  was  all  ended.  He  must  die,  here  alone,  with 
not  even  Edith's  presence  to  gladden  his  few  remain- 
ing hours.  For  a  long  time  he  looked  at  the  doctor 
with  burning  eyes,  yet  no  words  would  come  to  say 
that  which  he  felt.  The  doctor  must  have  under- 
stood, for  he,  too,  stood  silent,  his  eyes  fixed  tenderly 
upon  the  dying  man's  face.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"  You  should  send  for  your  people,  Mr.  West,"  he 
said. 

"  I  have  no  people,  doctor." 


134  THE  BRUTE 

"  Is  there  no  one  you  would  care  to  see  ?  " 

"  No  —  no  one  that  could  come  to  me  here."  He 
thought  of  Edith  —  so  far  away  —  even  if  she  could 
come  to  him,  he  knew  there  would  not  be  time.  He 
looked  once  more  at  the  grave  face  which  bent  over 
his.  "  How  long  have  I  to  live,  doctor?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  afraid  the  time  is  not  very  long,  Mr.  West. 
If  you  have  any  business  affairs  that  you  wish  to  at- 
tend to,  I  would  advise  you  to  do  so  at  once." 

Business  affairs !  What  business  affairs  could  in- 
terest him  now?  His  fortune  lay  in  the  Central  Na- 
tional Bank,  and  beyond  some  distant  relatives  in 
New  Hampshire  whom  he  had  never  seen,  and  who 
scarcely  knew  of  his  existence,  there  was  no  one  on 
earth  to  whom  he  could  leave  it.  No  one?  The 
thought  flashed  through  his  mind  —  what  about 
Edith?  She  was  nearer  and  dearer  to  him  than  all 
the  relatives  in  the  world  —  she  must  have  this 
money;  at  least  it  would  bring  her  comfort  and  the 
ability  to  make  her  life  what  she  had  always  wished 
it  to  be.  He  raised  his  hand,  and  began  to  speak. 
"  You  must  send  Austin  Williams  here,  doctor.  He 
is  a  lawyer  in  the  Pioneer  Building.  You  can  call 
him  up  on  the  telephone."  He  sank  back,  exhausted 


THE  BRUTE  135 

from  the  effort  of  speaking.  Williams  had  done 
work  for  him  in  the  past.  It  would  be  a  small  thing, 
to  make  his  will.  The  doctor  and  the  nurse  would 
act  as  witnesses.  He  asked  the  former  to  hurry  — 
there  was  no  time  to  be  lost  —  he  felt  his  strength 
ebbing  away  even  as  he  spoke. 

The  long  silence  that  followed  until  the  lawyer 
arrived  was  unbroken  save  by  the  labored  breathing 
of  the  man  in  the  bed.  What  thoughts  passed 
through  his  pain-tortured  brain  —  what  agony  of  re- 
gret, of  remorse,  of  self-accusation,  he  did  not  show 
by  word  or  look.  He  lay  with  his  eyes  closed,  the 
seal  of  death  upon  his  forehead.  At  last  the  lawyer 
arrived,  and  in  a  few  moments  was  apprised  of  the 
sad  circumstances  which  had  called  him.  He  gripped 
West's  hand  with  a  silent  pressure  of  sympathy,  and 
listened  to  the  broken  words  that  told  him  of  last 
wishes.  His  entire  property  was  to  be  left  to  Edith 
Pope  Rogers,  wife  of  Donald  Evan  Rogers,  of  New 
York  City.  That  was  all.  The  lawyer  called  for 
pen  and  paper,  and  rapidly  drew  up  the  short,  con- 
cise will.  West's  attorney  in  New  York,  Ogden 
Brennan  by  name,  of  the  firm  of  Gruber,  McMillan, 
Brennan  &  Shaw,  was  named  as  executor. 


136  THE  BRUTE 

Within  fifteen  minutes  the  will  had  been  drawn, 
signed  and  duly  witnessed,  and  William  West  had 
completed  his  last  earthly  task.  He  bade  Williams 
a  steady  farewell,  and  then  turned  toward  the  wall. 
"  I'm  so  tired ! "  he  moaned,  then  became  quiet. 
They  thought  he  was  sleeping,  and  did  not  disturb 
him.  He  was,  but  it  was  the  sleep  from  which  there 
is  no  awakening. 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  bells  in  Old  Trinity  were  chiming  the  hour 
of  five  and  all  New  York  began  to  turn  its 
face  homeward.  The  human  tide  flowed  from  of- 
fices to  elevators,  from  elevators  to  corridors  and 
thence  in  an  ever  growing  stream  toward  the  sub- 
way and  elevated  stations.  The  sun,  like  a  round 
red  Chinese  lamp,  was  poised  above  the  gathering 
mists  of  the  Jersey  shore,  ready  for  its  plunge  be- 
hind the  distant  hills.  Office  boys  and  bank  presi- 
dents, stenographers  and  captains  of  industry 
fought  democratically  for  seats  in  the  overcrowded 
trains,  while  over  all  sounded  the  shrill  call  of  the 
newsboys  as  they  disposed  of  the  afternoon  papers. 
Down-town  New  York  had  completed  another  day  — 
the  tides  now  moved  on  to  Jersey,  Harlem,  Brook- 
lyn, or  the  great  center  of  life  that  throbs  unceas- 
ingly about  Times  Square. 

Against  this  ever  increasing  torrent  of  humanity 
Mr.  Ogden  Brennan  of  the  firm  of  Gruber,  McMil- 
lan, Brennan  &  Shaw,  Attorneys-at-Law,  struggled 

137 


138  THE  BRUTE 

irritably,  as  he  forced  his  way  from  a  down-town 
subway  train,  and  hurried  to  the  firm's  extensive 
suite  of  offices  in  Wall  Street,  near  Broadway. 

He  gave  a  quick  glance  about  as  he  entered,  and, 
making  rapidly  for  his  private  office,  called  sharply 
to  young  Garvan,  one  of  his  assistants,  to  ask  Mr. 
Shaw  to  join  him  at  once.  Mr.  Brennan  was  tall 
and  gaunt-looking,  and  peremptory  alike  in  his  phys- 
ical and  mental  processes,  and,  when  he  entered  his 
office,  as  he  did  on  this  occasion,  in  a  more  than  usu- 
ally energetic  fashion,  everybody,  down  to  William 
the  office  boy,  was  galvanized  into  an  unwonted  ac- 
tivity. 

Mr.  Shaw,  the  junior  member  of  the  firm,  with  a 
dinner  on  at  his  club,  had  already  donned  his  over- 
coat and  was  giving  some  parting  instructions  to 
his  stenographer  as  young  Garvan  entered  and  de- 
livered the  message.  He  took  up  his  hat  with  a  sigh 
—  he  was  of  a  more  placid  and  phlegmatic  tempera- 
ment than  his  partner  —  and,  picking  up  his 
afternoon  paper,  folded  it  carefully,  selected  his 
walking  stick  from  the  stand  near  the  door,  and  pro- 
ceeded in  a  leisurely  manner  to  Mr.  Brennan's  pri- 
vate office. 


THE  BRUTE  139 

The  firm  of  Gruber,  McMillan,  Brennan  &  Shaw 
was  a  large  one,  and  its  principal  practice  lay  in  the 
handling  of  the  affairs  of  corporations  and  estates. 
Criminal  practice  knew  it  not,  but  it  was  said  of  Mr. 
Shaw  that  he  could  draw  a  better  contract,  or  han- 
dle a  difficult  merger,  more  successfully  than  any 
other  lawyer  in  New  York,  which  was  saying  much. 
Mr.  Brennan  dealt  with  estates  and  wills  —  the  lat- 
ter were  his  hobby.  He  claimed  that  none  drawn 
by  himself  had  ever  been  broken. 

As  Mr.  Shaw  entered  his  partner's  private  office, 
with  a  bland  look  of  inquiry  upon  his  well-bred  coun- 
tenance, he  observed  Mr.  Brennan  throw  down  upon 
his  desk,  with  an  exclamation  of  annoyance,  a  thin 
legal  document,  comprising  but  two  pages,  written, 
as  he  noted,  in  longhand,  instead  of  the  usual  type- 
written characters.  Mr.  Brennan  looked  up  with 
a  frown. 

"  Sam,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "  you  know  that  young 
Billy  West?  He's  dead." 

Mr.  Shaw  put  on  his  eyeglasses,  and  regarded  Mr. 
Brennan  curiously.  "  I  don't  seem  to  remember 
him,"  he  replied.  "  Who  was  he?  " 

"  Son  of  old  Josiah  West,  the  patent  attorney. 


140  THE  BRUTE 

He  made  a  fortune  In  mining  operations  in  Colo- 
rado. His  father  used  to  be  a  client  of  mine,  twenty 
years  ago.  Don't  you  recollect  the  suits  he  brought 
against  the  paper  trust  ?  " 

"  Before  my  time,  I  think,"  replied  Mr.  Shaw. 

"  Well,  it's  not  important  now.  I've  been  want- 
ing to  see  you  about  the  matter  all  day,  but  that  case 
of  the  Webster  estate  has  kept  me  on  the  jump. 
Young  West  died  in  Denver  last  Friday.  I've  just 
received  a  copy  of  his  will  from  an  attorney  out 
there  by  the  name  of  Williams."  Mr.  Brennan  re- 
ferred to  the  papers  impatiently,  adjusting  his 
glasses  with  a  jerk.  "  Austin  Williams.  He  writes 
a  long  letter,  telling  me  of  West's  death  in  the  City 
Hospital  there,  following  an  operation  for  appendi- 
citis. Very  sudden  affair.  West  was  interested  in 
a  mine  out  there,  but  had  sold  out  his  holdings  and 
put  the  proceeds  in  bank.  About  half  a  million,  I 
believe.  I'm  executor  of  his  estate."  He  looked  at 
Mr.  Shaw  with  a  frown. 

"  What  of  it,  Ogden  ?  Simple  enough  affair,  I 
should  think.  No  contesting  claims,  I  hope,  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort." 

"  None,  so  far  as  I  can  see.     It's  the  terms  of  the 


THE  BRUTE  141 

will  that  I  can't  quite  understand,  and  they  impress 
me  unpleasantly." 

"  What  are  they  ?  "  Mr.  Shaw  regarded  his  part- 
ner wearily.  He  wondered  why  Brennan  troubled 
to  explain  to  him  all  these  apparently  unimportant 
details,  just  when  he  was  in  an  especial  hurry  to  get 
up-town  and  change  in  time  for  dinner.  "  Is  there 
anything  in  the  matter  that  requires  action  to- 
night ?  "  he  inquired.  "  I  have  a  rather  important 
engagement,  and  —  " 

"  Sam,"  interrupted  his  partner,  "  I  won't  keep 
you  long.  My  object  in  telling  you  of  this  matter 
is  to  find  out  if  by  any  chance  you  know  a  man  in 
town  named  Donald  Rogers.  The  name,  somehow, 
sounded  familiar  to  me,  and  I  thought  possibly  you 
might  be  able  to  tell  me  something  about  him.  You 
know  everybody,  almost." 

"  Rogers,"  repeated  Mr.  Shaw  to  himself,  slowly ; 
"Donald  Rogers.  Isn't  he  a  mechanical  engineer? 
There  was  a  chap  by  that  name  who  had  something 
to  do  with  the  Sunbury  Cement  case.  Expert  wit- 
ness, if  I  remember  rightly.  Seemed  a  very  decent 
sort  of  a  fellow,  and  knew  his  business.  We  won 
the  case  on  his  testimony.  What's  he  got  to  do  with 


142  THE  BRUTE 

it?  "  The  junior  partner  took  a  chair,  and  laid  his 
cane,  newspaper  and  gloves  carefully  upon  the  desk. 
"  Go  ahead,"  he  said  quietly.  "  Let's  have  the  de- 
tails." 

Mr.  Brennan  took  off  his  glasses  and  nervously 
put  them  on  again.  "  This  will  that  West  made, 
upon  his  deathbed  —  "  he  picked  up  the  document 
from  the  desk  and  regarded  it  distastefully  - 
"  leaves  his  entire  estate  to  a  woman."  He  paused 
and  glanced  at  his  partner  as  though  to  note  the  ef- 
fect of  his  statement. 

Mr.  Shaw  turned  restlessly  in  his  chair.  He  evi- 
dently saw  nothing  strange  in  this.  "  Well,  why 
not?  "  he  asked.  "  I  don't  see  anything  about  that 
to  cause  anyone  any  alarm.  It  had  to  be  either  a 
woman  or  a  man,  I  suppose,  if  he  left  no  children." 

"  The  strange  part  about  the  affair,  Sam,  is  this : 
Young  West  was  not  married.  He  left  this  money 
to  the  wife  of  another  man  with  whom  he  was  madly 
in  love.  So  far  as  I  can  learn,  she  was  equally  in 
love  with  him.  They  were  planning  an  elopement, 
or  something  of  the  sort,  when  he  was  stricken  with 
this  illness.  He  insisted  upon  leaving  her  every- 
thing." 


THE  BRUTE  143 

**  You  don't  say  so !  Who  is  she  ?  "  asked  Mr. 
Shaw,  for  the  first  time  manifesting  an  .interest  in 
his  partner's  story. 

Mr.  Brennan  took  up  the  will,  and,  opening  it,  read 
aloud,  "  Edith  Pope  Rogers,  wife  of  Donald  Evan 
Rogers,  of  New  York  City." 

Mr.  Shaw  arose.  He  took  up  from  the  desk  a 
telephone  directory  and  consulted  it  with  interest. 
"  Donald  Evan  Rogers,"  he  presently  read,  "  me- 
chanical engineer,  Columbia  Building."  He  put 
down  the  book  and  glanced  at  his  partner.  "  That's 
the  man.  I  remember  him  well  now.  Bright  young 
fellow,  and  very  hardworking.  I  took  quite  a  fancy 
to  him.  Rather  a  queer  state  of  things,  I  must  say." 
He  whistled  softly  to  himself. 

"  Decidedly  so.  I  have  no  choice  in  the  matter, 
of  course,  but  I  fancy  this  document  is  likely  to 
cause  considerable  trouble  in  the  Rogers'  household." 

Mr.  Shaw  wrinkled  his  brow  in  a  frown.  "  You 
don't  suppose  for  a  moment  he'd  let  his  wife  take 
this  money  —  unless,  of  course,"  he  added  reflect- 
ively, "  she  intends  to  leave  him." 

Mr.  Brennan  threw  the  will  upon  the  table  with  a 
snort.  "  That's  the  whole  trouble,  Sam.  The 


THE  BRUTE 

woman  had  been  writing  young  West  every  day. 
Williams  has  sent  me  all  her  letters  to  him,  along 
with  his  other  papers.  I've  glanced  through  some 
of  them.  She  had  evidently  made  up  her  mind  to 
leave  her  husband  at  once,  as  soon  as  West  got  back 
from  Denver." 

"  I  don't  see  that  there  is  anything  for  you  to  do 
but  to  go  ahead  with  the  matter  as  the  law  requires. 
You  are  not  supposed  to  know  anything  about 
West's  relations  with  this  man's  wife.  Possibly  her 
husband  doesn't  know,  either.  It  is  none  of  your 
affair." 

"  I  know  it,  but  doesn't  it  occur  to  you,  Sam,  that 
this  is  likely  to  explode  a  bombshell  in  this  young 
fellow's  home  ?  " 

"Did  West  know  Rogers  well?"  inquired  Mr. 
Shaw. 

"  I  don't  know." 

"Why  don't  you  call  on  them  this  evening  and 
find  out?  Possibly  the  husband  may  see  nothing 
queer  in  this  money  being  left  to  his  wife.  West  may 
have  been  a  friend  of  his.  The  woman  will  say 
nothing,  you  may  be  sure  of  that." 

"  It's  the  only  thing  to  do,  I  know,  but  I  can't 


THE  BRUTE  145 

say  that  I  look  forward  to  the  interview  with  much 
pleasure.  I  thought  at  first  of  asking  Mrs.  Rogers 
to  come  here,  and  telling  her  the  whole  story;  but, 
if  I  do,  she  will  of  course  ask  me  to  keep  quiet  about 
the  matter,  and  that  will  put  me  in  the  position  of 
aiding  and  abetting  her  in  deceiving  her  husband. 
I  want  him  to  be  present,  when  I  see  her." 

"  Then  I  would  suggest  that  you  go  to  their  house 
to-night.  You  will  most  probably  find  the  husband 
at  home."  He  took  up  the  city  directory  and 
searched  its  columns  carefully.  "  Here  you  are," 
he  exclaimed  at  length.  "  Roxborough  Apartments, 
One  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street.  Drop  in  on  them 
this  evening,  why  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  had  better,"  observed  Mr.  Brennan 
slowly,  "  though  I  must  say  it  is  a  damnably  dis- 
agreeable task.  The  case  presents  some  extremely 
unpleasant  problems." 

Mr.  Shaw  picked  up  his  stick,  his  gloves,  and  his 
newspaper,  and  began  slowly  to  button  up  his  coat. 
"  Decidedly  so,"  he  observed.  "  I  can't  say  I  like  it. 
This  woman  has  been  on  the  point  of  eloping  with 
another  man,  who  leaves  her  a  large  fortune.  She 
might  of  course  refuse  to  accept  it,  or  at  least  dis- 


146  THE  BRUTE 

pose  of  it  in  some  way,  but  I  fail  to  see  how  she  can 
do  so,  without  arousing  her  husband's  suspicions. 
If,  on  the  other  hand,  she  can  convince  him  that  West 
left  her  the  money  from  pure  friendship,  and  good- 
ness of  heart,  she  places  herself  in  the  position  of 
accepting  the  money  of  her  lover  to  spend  upon  her 
husband  —  her  children  —  if  she  has  any.  Pretty 
rough  on  the  husband,  I  must  say.  No  self-respect- 
ing man  could  permit  such  a  thing.  The  worst  of  it 
is  that  we  have  got  to  be  a  party  to  it.  What  sort 
of  a  woman  can  she  be,  I  wonder?  " 

"  That  is  just  the  thing  we  must  determine.  Un- 
derstand, this  woman  knows  nothing  of  the  will  as  yet. 
I  confess  I  feel  considerable  curiosity  as  to  what  her 
course  of  action  will  be  when  she  learns  of  it.  It's 
a  mighty  difficult  position  for  any  woman  to  be  in, 
there's  no  denying  that.  She  may,  of  course,  re- 
fuse to  accept  it  at  all." 

"  She  couldn't  very  well.     It's  hers  by  law." 

"  Of  course,  I  understand  that.  But  she  could 
dispose  of  it  in  some  way,  possibly." 

"  Not  without  its  looking  very  queer  to  her  hus- 
band." Mr.  Shaw  moved  toward  the  office  door.  "  I 
guess  I  wouldn't  worry  about  the  matter,  Ogden,  if 


THE  BRUTE  147 

I  were  you.  Let  them  fight  it  out  themselves.  After 
all,  it's  their  funeral,  not  ours,  you  know.  If  there 
is  anything  I  can  do  in  the  matter,  let  me  know. 
Good-night.  I've  got  to  hurry."  He  passed  out, 
the  expression  on  his  face  indicating  a  sort  of  morose 
satisfaction.  Perhaps  he  was  congratulating  him- 
self upon  the  fact  that  he  was  not  married. 

Mr.  Brennan  put  the  will  into  his  pocket,  called 
in  his  stenographer,  and  spent  half  an  hour  in  clear- 
ing his  desk  for  the  night.  He  tried  to  dismiss  the 
matter  of  the  will  from  his  mind  as  he  rode  up-town 
in  the  subway,  but  it  persisted  with  annoying  regu- 
larity, and  prevented  his  usual  enjoyment  of  his 
evening  paper.  He  was  a  man  whose  gaunt  and  for- 
bidding exterior  masked  a  nature  innately  kind,  and 
he  deeply  regretted  the  circumstances  that  forced 
him  to  play  the  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  Rogers' 
family  which  now  confronted  him.  The  more  he 
thought  of  the  matter,  the  more  difficult  it  became 
to  evolve  any  course  of  action  that  would  obviate 
the  apparently  inevitable  crash.  The  law  required 
that  he,  as  executor  of  West's  estate,  should  turn 
over  all  the  property  to  Mrs.  Rogers,  and  that  duty 
he  could  in  no  way  evade.  His  conscience  told  him 


148  THE  BRUTE 

that  to  do  so  in  such  a  way  as  to  hoodwink  or  deceive 
her  husband  would  be  wrong,  and  yet  he  hesitated 
to  put  the  matter  in  a  light  that  would  result  in  a 
complete  disruption  of  the  Rogers'  domestic  affairs. 
It  spoiled  his  enjoyment  of  his  dinner,  which,  being 
a  bachelor,  he  ate  at  his  club,  and  it  clung  to  him 
like  a  cloak  of  gloom  all  the  way  up  to  the  Rox- 
borough.  It  was  close  to  half-past  eight  when  he 
entered  the  vestibule  of  the  apartment  house,  and, 
after  inquiring  whether  Mrs.  Rogers  was  in,  sent  up 
his  card  by  the  elevator  boy. 


CHAPTER  XI 

MRS.  POPE  did  not  often  spend  an  evening  at 
her  son-in-law's.  She  lived  some  distance 
down-town,  at  a  boarding-house  kept  by  an  old  ac- 
quaintance of  hers,  on  Fifty-ninth  Street,  and  she 
had  an  aversion  to  the  trip  to  Harlem.  She  often 
told  the  girls  that  New  York  stopped  at  Fifty-ninth 
Street  and  that  she  could  never  endure  living  be- 
yond it. 

Her  object,  on  this  particular  occasion,  was  to 
induce  Donald,  if  possible,  to  change  his  mind  with 
reference  to  the  seashore  cottage  which  she  was  so 
anxious  to  take  for  the  summer. 

She  came  in  puffing  audibly,  accompanied  by  Alice. 
Her  usual  dissatisfied  expression  was  in  evidence. 
Mrs.  Pope  was  chronically  dissatisfied  with  every- 
thing —  her  income,  her  life,  her  increasing  flesh, 
her  daughter's  marriage,  and  the  weather. 

"  Edith,"  she  announced,  as  she  entered  the  room, 
"  the  elevator  service  in  this  place  gets  worse  every 

day.     I've  been  waiting  downstairs  for  a  car  for 

149 


150  THE  BRUTE 

over  five  minutes,  and  the  boy  had  the  impertinence 
to  tell  me  he  had  been  out  running  errands  for  one 
of  the  tenants.  You  ought  to  complain  about  it." 

"  I'm  sorry,  mother,"  said  Edith,  as  she  helped 
in  the  removal  of  Mrs.  Pope's  coat. 

"  Why  don't  they  have  a  hall  boy  ?  "  demanded 
her  mother,  glaring  at  Edith  as  though  it  were  her 
daughter's  particular  fault  that  this  service  was 
lacking. 

"  I  suppose  it's  on  account  of  the  expense." 

"  Humph !  That's  one  of  the  j  oys  of  living  in 
such  cheap  apartments.  When  I  lived  at  the  Boling- 
broke  Arms  —  " 

"Please,  mother,  don't  tell  us  about  it  again," 
exclaimed  Alice  impatiently.  The  story  of  her 
mother's  former  grandeur  was  an  oft  told  tale  in  the 
family. 

"  Alice,  you  are  impertinent."  Her  mother's  tone 
was  deeply  aggrieved.  "  Before  your  dear  father 
died,  we  had  everything  heart  could  wish.  It  is 
not  strange  that  I  find  myself  unable  to  get  ac- 
customed to  Harlem  flats."  She  turned  to  Edith, 
who  had  taken  up  her  sewing.  "  Edith,  where's 
your  husband  ?  " 


THE  BRUTE  151 

"  He  went  out  to  post  some  letters,  mother.  He'll 
be  back  presently." 

Mrs.  Pope  glared  about  the  room  with  an  im- 
patient snort.  "  Huh !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  I  don't 
wish  to  make  unkind  remarks  about  Donald  behind 
his  back,  but,  when  I  consented  to  your  marriage, 
I  certainly  never  expected  to  see  you  come  to  this. 
I've  just  come  from  the  Harrisons'.  They  have 
taken  an  apartment  in  the  St.  George.  You  ought 
to  see  it,  Edith.  Persian  rugs  all  over  the  place, 
real-lace  curtains,  Circassian-walnut  furniture  in 
the  dining-room,  cold-storage  ice-box,  vacuum  cleaner 
free  every  week.  It's  perfect,  and  only  two  thousand 
a  year.  I  couldn't  help  thinking  that  that  was  the 
kind  of  a  home  I  hoped  to  see  my  daughter  in, 
instead  of  a  fifty-dollar-a-month  tenement."  She 
sank  heavily  into  a  chair,  and  emitted  a  windy  sigh. 

Alice  threw  down  the  magazine  which  she  had  been 
looking  over  and  laughed.  "  Well,  mother,  you  may 
see  it  yet,  you  know.  I'm  still  in  the  running." 

"  Not  unless  you  give  up  your  ridiculous  idea  of 
marrying  that  young  Emerson  Hall,  and  pick  out  a 
man  with  some  money.  He  need  not  be  a  millionaire, 
but  he  at  least  ought  to  be  able  to  keep  you  in  the 


152  THE  BRUTE 

style  to  which  you  have  always  been  accustomed." 

Alice  laughed.  "  Don't  forget,  mother,"  she  said 
with  a  mischievous  look,  "  that  he  has  been  to  our 
boarding-house.  I  guess  he'll  be  able  to  match  that, 
at  least." 

"  Alice,  I  see  no  necessity  of  your  reminding  me 
of  our  present  poverty.  When  your  father,  my  poor, 
dear  J.  B.,  was  alive,  we  lived  just  as  well  as  the 
Harrisons'." 

"  I  know  it,  mother.  That's  one  reason  why 
father  left  debts,  instead  of  a  bank  account." 

"  Alice,  how  can  you  speak  so  of  your  poor  father? 
He  was  the  best  husband  I  ever  knew.  He  never  re- 
fused me  anything."  She  took  out  her  handkerchief 
and  applied  it  gently  to  her  eyes.  "  I  shall  never 
get  over  his  untimely  end  —  never." 

"  Don't  mind  me,  mother.  Poor  old  dad  was  the 
best  father  in  the  world."  Alice  went  over  to  her 
mother  and  patted  her  consolingly  on  the  shoulder. 

"  He  certainly  was,"  continued  Mrs.  Pope.  "  I 
never  had  to  ask  him  for  a  dollar.  He  anticipated 
my  every  wish.  One  of  the  last  things  he  said  was, 
*  Mary,  see'that  the  girls  marry  well.'  I  often  think 
of  it,  Edith,  when  I  look  at  you." 


THE  BRUTE  153 

"  Oh,  well,  mother,"  rejoined  Edith,  "  I  certainly 
wouldn't  have  wanted  to  marry  any  man  just  for  his 
money." 

"  It's  just  as  easy  to  fall  in  love  with  a  rich  man, 
my. dear,  as  with  a  poor  one.  I  always  told  you 
that.  With  your  looks,  you  might  have  had  anyone 
you  pleased." 

"  How  about  me,  mother  ? "  asked  Alice  mis- 
chievously. 

"  You  certainly  ought  to  do  better  than  that 
young  Hall,  as  I've  told  you  before.  I  doubt  if  he 
has  five  thousand  a  year." 

"  Four,  mother,  I  understand." 

"  Then  he  is  worse  than  impossible.  Four  thou- 
sand a  year!  Your  father  never  spent  less  than 
fifteen  and  we  had  hard  enough  work  to  make  ends 
meet  as  it  was,  but  I  always  had  my  maid,  and  my 
carriage.  I'm  an  old  woman  now,  and  it  doesn't 
make  any  difference  if  I  have  to  do  without  — 
though  I  can't  say  I've  ever  become  used  to  it  —  but 
you  are  young ;  you  ought  to  have  pleasure,  luxury, 
the  good  things  of  life.  Look  at  Edith,  poor  child, 
stuck  here  in  this  awful  place  without  a  cent  she  can 
call  her  own.  It  ought  to  be  a  lesson  to  you." 


154  THE  BRUTE 

"  Sort  of  horrible  example,  I  suppose,"  remarked 
Mrs.  Rogers,  with  a  trace  of  bitterness  in  her  voice. 

"  Well,  you're  not  happy,  are  you  ?  "  asked  her 
mother,  turning  on  her  suddenly.  "  Why  should 
you  be?  Donald  may  be  a  very  faithful  husband  — 
at  least  I  don't  know  anything  to  the  contrary,  but 
why  he  should  expect  a  girl  like  you  to  bow  down 
and  worship  him,  just  for  permitting  you  to  cook 
his  meals,  is  more  than  I  can  see.  If  he  only  had  a 
little  more  spirit,  he  would  get  out  and  make  money, 
the  way  other  men  do,  instead  of  being  content  to 
live  on  little  better  than  a  clerk's  hire.  I  don't  like 
to  hurt  your  feelings,  my  dear,  any  more  than  I  can 
help,  but  you  know  I've  always  thought  him  a 
pretty  poor  sort  of  a  stick." 

"  I  know  you've  never  liked  Donald,  mother.  Let's 
talk  of  something  else." 

"  What  we  really  came  for,  Edith,  was  to  talk 
over  our  plans  for  the  summer."  Alice  drew  up  her 
chair  and  looked  significantly  at  her^  mother. 

"  Exactly,"  said  Mrs.  Pope.  "  I  know  that  Don- 
ald hasn't  given  his  consent,  but  I  intend  to  talk 
to  him  about  the  matter  myself."  Mrs.  Pope  looked 
at  her  daughter  as  though  she  believed  the  matter 


THE  BRUTE  155 

as  good  as  settled  already.  "  Alice  and  I  are  paying 
thirty-five  dollars  a  week  where  we  are.  If  you  and 
Bobbie  could  pay  twenty-five  that  would  make  —  let 
me  see  —  "  she  paused,  absorbed  in  the  effort  of  men- 
tal calculation  —  "  two  hundred  and  sixty  a  month." 

"  Two  hundred  and  forty,  mother,"  corrected 
Alice. 

"  Oh,  well  —  two  hundred  and  forty,  then.     We 
could  rent  a  bungalow,  furnished,  for  a  hundred  a 
month ;  that  would  leave  a  hundred  and  forty  for 
living  expenses  —  we  wouldn't  need  to  keep  a  girl 
Donald  could  come  down  for  week  ends." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  it,  mother.  Donald  says  he 
can't  afford  it.  I  told  you  what  he  said." 

"  Edith,  for  goodness'  sake,  have  a  little  spirit. 
Your  health  demands  a  change.  Your  child's  health 
demands  it.  And,  besides,  if  you  don't  come,  Alice 
and  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go  to  a  hotel  and  live  in  a 
couple  of  stuffy  rooms.  We  couldn't  afford  to  take 
a  cottage,  just  for  the  two  of  us." 

"  We  can't  spare  the  money,  mother.  I'm  sorry, 
but  I  can't  do  anything  more." 

"  What  on  earth  does  Donald  do  with  his  money, 
Edith?  He  certainly  doesn't  spend  it  on  you." 


156  THE  BRUTE 

"  He  is  investing  it  in  a  glass  factory,  in  West 
Virginia,  I  believe." 

Mrs.  Pope  looked  supremely  disgusted.  "  Glass 
factory!"  she  snorted.  "Isn't  that  just  like  him. 
He  thinks  little  enough  of  your  happiness.  Poor 
Edith!  My  poor  child!  You  certainly  are  to  be 
pitied." 

"  He  hopes  to  make  a  great  deal  out  of  it,  some 
day." 

"  Fiddlesticks!  He  might  just  as  well  throw  it  in 
the  street.  My  poor  dear  J.  B.  always  said  that 
Government  bonds  were  the  only  safe  investment. 
Glass  factory,  indeed !  "  She  seemed  unable  to  con- 
tain her  indignation. 

The  rattle  of  a  key  in  the  door  warned  her  of 
Donald's  approach.  She  composed  her  face  in  a 
smile,  and  rose  to  greet  him  as  he  entered.  "  My 
dear  Donald,"  she  exclaimed  effusively,  "  I'm  so  glad 
to  see  you !  " 

"  Good-evening,  mother.  You  don't  mind  ?  "  Don- 
ald replied  pleasantly,  holding  up  the  cigar  he  was 
smoking. 

"  Oh,  not  in  the  least."  Mrs.  Pope  resumed  her 
chair  with  a  self-satisfied  air.  "  My  poor  dear  J.  B. 


THE  BRUTE  157 

always  smoked  the  very  best  Havanas.  I  love  the 
odor  of  a  good  Havana  cigar." 

Donald  went  over  to  the  desk  and  seated  himself 
in  his  accustomed  chair.  "  I'm  afraid  you  won't 
like  this  one,  then,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh. 
"  Pure  Connecticut,  five  straight.  I  can't  afford 
the  imported  kind." 

Mrs.  Pope  took  no  notice  of  his  remarks  on  the 
subject  of  cigars.  She  looked  from  Alice  to  Edith, 
as  though  to  gather  courage,  preened  herself 
with  a  conscious  effort,  then  plunged  into  the  fray. 
"  Donald,"  she  began,  "  we  were  just  speaking  of  our 
plans  for  the  summer.  I  know  you  will  be  interested 
on  Edith's  account,  and  Bobbie's.  The  poor  child 
doesn't  look  very  well.  Edith  tells  me  he  has  a  rack- 
ing cough.  Now  let  me  tell  you  what  we  propose 
to  do.  Edith  thinks  it  a  perfectly  splendid  plan." 

"  Mother,  you  know  what  I  told  you,"  began  Mrs. 
Rogers  warningly. 

"  Never  mind,  child.  I  wish  to  place  the  matter 
before  Donald  in  a  businesslike  way.  I  am  an  old 
woman,  but  I  am  willing  to  sacrifice  myself  for  my 
children's  sake." 

"  I  couldn't  think  of  letting  you  do  anything  of 


158  THE  BRUTE 

the    sort    on   Edith's    account,"    remarked    Donald 
dryly. 

"  Edith  is  my  child,  Donald.  I  must  think  of  her 
welfare.  I  propose  to  rent  a  cottage  at  the  sea- 
shore —  a  little  bungalow  —  " 

"  I  know  all  about  it,  mother,"  interrupted  Donald, 
with  a  look  of  weariness.  "  Edith  has  told  me.  We 
can't  do  it  this  summer." 

"  But,  Donald,  surely  you  realize  what  it  would 
mean  for  her,  and  for  your  child?  " 

"  Quite  as  well  as  you  do.  I'm  sorry,  but  I  can't 
do  it.  We  have  to  make  sacrifices  now,  for  the  sake 
of  the  future."  He  turned  to  his  desk,  and  began 
to  look  over  some  papers  which  he  drew  from  his 
pocket. 

"  But  surely  you  realize  —  you  can't  mean  — 
stammered   Mrs.   Pope   feebly,   her    face   reddening 
angrily. 

"  I  shouldn't  say  anything  more  about  it,  mother, 
if  I  were  you,"  remarked  Edith. 

Mrs.  Pope  sank  back  into  her  chair,  with  an  air  of 
deep  resignation.  "  Very  well,"  she  said,  as  though 
allowing  the  whole  matter  to  pass  from  her  hands 
into  those  of  Divine  Providence.  "  I've  tried  to  do 


THE  BRUTE  159 

my  duty.  If  anything  happens  to  Bobbie,  remem- 
ber that,  Donald."  It  was  quite  clear  that  whatever 
might  happen  she  would  regard  as  solely  her  son-in- 
law's  fault. 

"  I  shall,"  remarked  Donald,  going  on  with  his 
reading. 

There  was  an  ominous  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
ticking  of  the  clock  upon  the  mantel.  It  was  in- 
terrupted by  the  sudden  ringing  of  the  door-bell. 
Donald  rose  and  went  over  to  the  door.  The  others 
hear'd  him  talking  with  someone  outside.  Presently 
he  turned,  with  a  card  in  his  hand.  "  The  boy  says 
there  is  a  gentleman  downstairs  to  see  you,  Edith," 
he  said  to  his  wife. 

Edith  rose  in  surprise.  "  To  see  me?  "  she  asked. 
"Who  is  it?" 

Her  husband  looked  at  the  card.  "  Mr.  Ogden 
Brennan,  the  card  says.  Do  you  know  him?  " 

"  No,  I  never  heard  the  name  before."  She  came 
over  to  Donald  and,  taking  the  card,  looked  at  it 
curiously.  "  Perhaps  we  had  better  ask  him  to  come 
up." 

"  Send  him  up,"  said  Donald  to  the  boy  at  the 
door,  as  he  closed  it. 


160  THE  'BRUTE 

"  I  wonder  who  he  can  be?  "  Edith  asked  in  mys- 
tified tone. 

"  Possibly  a  bill-collector,"  said  Mrs.  Pope  sar- 
castically. 

"  Hardly,  at  this  time  of  the  night."  Donald 
looked  at  his  watch.  "  It's  almost  eight-thirty." 
He  took  a  match  from  the  desk,  and  carefully  re- 
lighted his  half-smoked  cigar. 

Mrs.  Pope  rose.  "  Alice,  I  think  we  had  better 
be  going,"  she  remarked,  with  a  frown. 

"  Nonsense,  mother.  Sit  down.  You've  only  just 
come.  There  is  some  beer  on  the  ice."  She  paused, 
and  Mrs.  Pope  relapsed  into  her  chair  with  sudden 
promptness.  "  Very  well,  Edith,  if  you  insist,"  she 
said  resignedly.  , 

"  Let's  make  a  welsh  rabbit,"  suggested  Alice, 
looking  up  from  her  magazine.  As  she  spoke  the 
door-bell  rang.  Her  sister  hurried  over  to  the  door 
and  threw  it  open. 

Mr.  Brennan  came  in  with  a  slight  show  of  hesita- 
tion, looking  about  him  curiously.  The  household 
of  the  persons  who  were  to  have  the  spending  of 
West's  fortune  had  a  peculiar  interest  for  him. 
What  sort  of  persons  were  they?  he  had  asked  himself 


THE  BRUTE  161 

half  a  hundred  times  since  he  left  his  office.  "  This 
is  Mrs.  Rogers'  apartment? "  he  inquired,  as  he 
came  in. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Edith,  returning  his  glance  of 
scrutiny  with  interest. 

"  I  wish  to  see  Mrs.  Rogers." 

"I  am  Mrs.  Rogers." 

"  I  am  here  on  a  matter  of  business,  Mrs.  Rogers." 
He  glanced  about  the  room,  embracing  the  others 
in  his  comprehensive  survey.  "  Of  course,  if  you 
have  guests,  I  could  perhaps  come  at  some  other 
time." 

"  I  hardly  think  it  will  be  necessary,"  remarked 
Edith  nervously.  She  had  not  the  least  idea  what 
this  dignified-looking  old  gentleman  could  want  with 
her,  but  it  was  clearly  evident  that  he  was  neither 
a  book-agent  nor  a  bill-collector.  She  was  conscious 
of  a  growing  presentiment  of  evil  and,  in  her  per- 
plexity, she  turned  to  her  husband.  "  Mr.  Bren- 
nan,"  she  said,  "  this  is  my  husband." 

The  two  men  bowed.  "  I  am  glad  to  meet  you, 
Mr.  Brennan,"  said  Donald,  coming  toward  him. 
"  You  have  business  with  my  wife,  I  understand." 

"  Yes,    Mr.    Rogers.     Business    of   great   impor- 


162  THE  BRUTE 

tance."     Mr.     Brennan's    tone    was     significant  — 
ominous. 

Donald  took  the  lawyer's  coat  and  hat.  "  My 
mother  and  sister,  Mr.  Brennan,"  he  observed. 
"  Won't  you  take  a  seat  ?  " 

Brennan  bowed,  but  declined  the  chair.  "  I  shall 
keep  you  but  a  moment.  My  business  is  with  your 
wife,  Mr.  Rogers,  but  I  came  at  this  hour,  in  the 
hope  of  finding  you  at  home  as  well.  The  matter 
concerns  you  both.  I  am  an  attorney,  of  the  firm 
of  Gruber,  McMillan,  Brennan  &  Shaw,  of  Number 
11  Wall  Street." 

"  Yes  ?  "  replied  Donald,  looking  in  surprise  at 
Edith.  She  with  Alice,  and  the  mother,  who  had 
risen  from  her  chair,  stood  regarding  the  visitor 
with  interest. 

"  I  regret  to  say,"  continued  Mr.  Brennan,  in 
an  even  tone,  "  that  I  have  come  upon  a  very  sad 
errand." 

The  fears  which  had  been  torturing  Edith  all 
the  evening  suddenly  took  a  more  concrete  form. 
"  What !  "  she  cried,  clutching  at  her  breast  —  "I 
—  I  don't  understand." 

"  You  were  acquainted  with  Mr.  William  West, 


THE  BRUTE  163 

were  you  not,  Mrs.  Rogers?"  He  turned  to  her 
with  a  look  of  interrogation. 

Edith  stared  at  him  in  wide-eyed  terror,  her 
fingers  convulsively  clutching  the  lace  at  her  throat. 
"  Were !  "  she  cried,  "  Were !  "  then  relapsed  into 
silence.  Donald  seemed  surprised  at  her  agitation; 
to  him  it  meant  nothing.  He  turned  to  Mr.  Bren- 
nan.  "  Certainly.  Billy  West.  He's  one  of  my 
best  friends." 

"  It  is  with  the  deepest  regret  that  I  am  obliged 
to  inform  you  of  his  death."  Mr.  Brennan's  voice 
was  not  so  even  as  it  had  been,  and  held  a  note  of 
sorrow.  He  had  been  genuinely  fond  of  West,  and 
the  latter's  death  was  a  great  shock  to  him. 

Edith  shrank  back  with  a  cry,  her  hand  over  her 
eyes,  as  though  trying  to  ward  off  this  sudden  blow. 
Her  sister  put  her  arm  about  her.  "  Edith ! "  she 
whispered,  and  spoke  to  her  in  a  low  voice.  The 
others  were  too  much  surprised  by  the  lawyer's  an- 
nouncement to  give  much  attention  to  her  agita- 
tion. 

Donald  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Dead !  Billy 
West  dead !  Impossible !  "  He  gazed  at  Mr.  Bren- 
nan  with  a  stare  of  incredulity. 


164  THE  BRUTE 

"  Unfortunately  not,  Mr.  Rogers.  I  only  wish  it 
were.  Mr.  West  died  suddenly  last  Friday  in  Den- 
ver, Colorado,  following  an  operation  for  appendi- 
citis." 

In  his  sudden  realization  of  his  friend's  death, 
Donald  turned  away,  the  tears  very  near  the  surface. 
"  Poor  old  chap !  "  he  muttered.  "  Poor  old  Billy !  " 
He  looked  over  at  his  wife.  "  Edith,  isn't  it  terri- 
ble? Think  of  it,  Billy  West  dead." 

"  Why  do  you  come  to  tell  us  ?  How  do  you 
know  ?  "  asked  Edith,  staring  at  Mr.  Brennan  in  a 
frightened  way. 

"  I  have  been  Mr.  West's  attorney  for  a  number 
of  years.  I  received  word  of  his  death  this  morn- 
ing." 

"  Poor  young  man !  I  always  liked  him  so  much !  " 
Mrs.  Pope  assumed  an  expression  of  deep  solicitude. 
"  He  was  very  well  off,  was  he  not,  Mr.  Brennan?  " 

"  Very,"  answered  Brennan  shortly,  then  turned 
to  Donald.  "  You  knew  Mr.  West  very  well,  I 
take  it?" 

"  Intimately.  We  had  been  bosom  friends  for 
years.  He  was  in  my  class  at  college.  I  loved  him 
like  a  brother.  He  had  a  heart  of  gold,  Mr.  Bren- 


THE  BRUTE  165 

nan.  Of  all  the  men  I  know,  he  was  the  squarest 
and  best  friend.  You  cannot  realize  what  his  death 
means  to  us.  Edith,  isn't  it  sad?  " 

Edith  began  to  cry.  "I  —  I  can't  realize  it," 
she  sobbed ;  "  it  seems  so  terrible." 

Brennan  drew  a  thin,  folded  document  from  his 
pocket,  and  regarded  it  critically  through  his  eye- 
glasses. "  He  must  have  thought  a  great  deal  of 
you  —  and  Mrs.  Rogers,"  he  observed,  glancing  at 
Donald. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  he  did,  Mr.  Brennan,  but 
why—?" 

Brennan  interrupted  him  with  a  wave  of  his  hand. 
"  I  will  explain,"  he  said.  "  Before  Mr.  West  died, 
he  made  a  will.  It  was  drawn  up  by  an  attorney  in 
Denver  who,  acting  on  Mr.  West's  instructions,  at 
once  communicated  with  me.  I  am  the  executor  of 
the  estate." 

"  But,  Mr.  Brennan,  how  does  the  matter  concern 
us?  "  Donald  was  becoming  a  trifle  impatient  un- 
der the  continued  strain  of  Mr.  Brennan's  signifi- 
cant manner. 

"  The  best  way  to  answer  that,  Mr.  Rogers,"  said 
Brennan,  adjusting  his  eyeglasses,  and  unfolding 


166  THE  BRUTE 

the  document  he  held  in  his  hand,  "  is  to  read  the 
will." 

With  a  sudden  start,  Edith  dashed  the  tears  from 
her  eyes  and  turned  toward  the  lawyer.  She  was 
conscious  of  a  horrible  fear  —  a  feeling  of  dread  lest 
this  document,  to  which  Mr.  Brennan  evidently  at- 
tached such  sinister  importance,  might  contain  some- 
thing, she  knew  not  what,  which  would  apprise  Donald 
of  her  relations  with  the  dead  man,  and,  like  a  voice 
from  the  grave  blast  her  whole  life.  "  Why  is  it 
necessary  to  read  it?  "  she  asked,  her  voice  trembling 
with  emotion. 

Brennan  turned  and  observed  her  gravely  through 
his  glasses.  "  Because,  Mrs.  Rogers,"  he  replied, 
"  this  document  concerns  you  most  intimately.  It 
isn't  very  long."  Again  he  took  up  the  will  and 
prepared  to  read. 

"  I  —  I  don't  want  to  hear  it,"  sobbed  Edith. 

"Edith,  what  is  wrong  with  you?  Why  should 
Mr.  Brennan  not  read  the  will  if  it  contains  matters 
which  concern  us?"  Donald  turned  to  the  lawyer. 
"  You  must  pardon  my  wife,  Mr.  Brennan.  This 
sad  news  has  completely  upset  her.  Go  ahead." 
He  went  over  to  Edith  and,  taking  her  arm,  led  her 


THE  BRUTE  167 

to  a  chair.  "  You  had  better  sit  down,  Edith,  and  let 
Mr.  Brennan  finish  what  he  has  to  say.  There  is 
no  occasion  for  all  this  excitement." 

"  But,  Donald  —  listen  —  I  —  " 

"  Never  mind  now.  We  are  detaining  Mr.  Bren- 
nan." His  voice  was  impatient,  and  he  looked  at 
her  curiously.  "  Go  ahead,  sir,"  he  said,  "  and  let 
us  have  the  matter  over  with,  whatever  it  is,  as 
quickly  as  possible." 

Brennan,  clearing  his  throat  with  a  nervous  cough, 
took  up  the  will  and  began  to  read. 

" '  I,  William  West,  being  of  sound  mind,  do 
hereby  make  this  my  last  will  and  testament. 

"  *  I  give,  devise  and  bequeath  all  my  property, 
whether  real  or  personal,  and  wherever  situated,  to 
Edith  Pope  Rogers,  wife  of  Donald  Evan  Rogers,  of 
New  York  City.' " 

He  paused,  and  glanced  about  to  note  the  effect 
of  his  words.  Edith  had  slowly  risen  from  her  chair, 
and  her  face  was  a  picture  of  horrified  amazement. 
Donald,  almost  equally  surprised,  looked  from  the 
lawyer  to  her,  apparently  unable  to  speak.  Alice 
and  Mrs.  Pope  were  dumfounded.  The  whole  party 
stood  in  silence  regarding  Mr.  Brennan  as  though 


168  THE  BRUTE 

they   could   scarcely   grasp  what   they   had  heard. 

Suddenly  the  tenseness  of  the  moment  was  broken. 
Edith  had  come  slowly  toward  Brennan,  her  hand  out- 
stretched, her  face  white  with  horror.  "  No !  —  my 
God !  No !  "  she  cried,  then  tottered  and  would  have 
fallen  had  her  mother  not  stepped  quickly  forward 
and  supported  her.  "  I  can't  take  it  —  I  can't  take 
it!"  she  cried,  in  spite  of  her  mother's  attempts 
to  quiet  her. 

"  The  remainder  of  the  will,"  continued  Brennan 
coldly,  as  he  folded  up  the  document  and  placed  it 
in  his  pocket,  "  refers  only  to  my  appointment  as 
executor."  He  removed  his  glasses  and  looked  at 
Donald. 

"  You  mean  that  he  has  left  everything  to  my 
wife?  "  gasped  the  latter,  faintly. 

"  Everything." 

"No!     No !"  cried  Edith. 

"  Be  quiet,  my  child,"  Mrs.  Pope  said  soothingly, 
then  turned  to  the  lawyer.  "  How  much  did  he  leave, 
Mr.  Brennan  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  cannot  say  exactly,  madam.  It  will  be  im- 
possible to  tell  until  the  estate  is  settled  up.  Proba- 
bly not  less  than  half  a  million." 


EDITH  HAD  SLOWLY  RISEN  FROM  HER  CHAIR,  AND  HER  FACE 
WAS  A  PICTURE  OF  HORRIFIED  AMAZEMENT 


THE  BRUTE  169 

"  Half  a  million ! "  Mrs.  Pope  collapsed  limply 
into  a  chair.  "  Edith !  Half  a  million !  Think  of 
it ! "  She  sat  gazing  before  her  with  a  half-in- 
credulous smile,  as  though  the  thought  of  so  much 
money  were  difficult  of  digestion. 

"  Mr.  Brennan,  I  can't  understand  it  —  I  can't 
believe  it."  Donald's  voice  was  trembling  with  excite- 
ment. "Why  should  he  have  left  Mrs.  Rogers  all 
this  money  ?  Had  he  no  relatives  —  no  connections 
—  who  would  have  a  better  right  to  it  ?  " 

"  None,  I  understand.  In  any  event,  the  will 
would  stand.  Mr.  West  has  shown  his  affection  for 
your  wife  by  leaving  her  his  entire  fortune.  No 
court  could  break  that  will." 

"  What  a  man !  "  exclaimed  Donald.  "  I  knew 
he  was  very  fond  of  us;  we  had  been  friends  for 
years,  but  I  never  thought  of  anything  like  this." 
He  went  up  to  his  wife  and  took  her  hand.  "  Edith," 
he  said  earnestly,  "  do  you  realize  what  it  means  ? 
Poor  old  Billy  has  made  you  a  rich  woman." 

"  I  cannot  take  this  money,"  cried  Edith,  her  face 
dull  with  despair.  "  I  cannot  —  I  cannot."  She 
tore  herself  away  from  her  husband  and  faced  Bren- 
nan with  the  look  of  an  animal  at  bay. 


170  THE  BRUTE 

K 

"Edith,  my  dear,  are  you  losing  your  senses?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Pope. 

"  I  cannot  take  it,"  repeated  Mrs.  Rogers,  me- 
chanically. 

"Why  not?"  asked  Donald.  His  question  came 
like  a  blow. 

She  did  not  dare  to  tell  him  that  —  she  clenched 
her  hands  until  the  blood  came,  looking  at  him  in 
sudden  confusion. 

"  Of  course,  it  is  a  very  large  amount,"  he  went 
on,  "  but  if  he  wished  it  —  " 

"  You  are  right,  Donald."  Mrs.  Pope  favored  him 
with  a  smile  which  seemed  almost  genial,  compared 
with  those  she  usually  bestowed  upon  him.  "  Edith, 
my  dear,  it  is  your  duty  to  respect  the  wishes  of 
the  dead.  Don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Brennan?  " 

"  The  will  allows  me  no  latitude,  madam.  What- 
ever your  daughter's  feelings  in  the  matter  may  be, 
it  is  my  duty  as  executor  to  turn  over  to  her  Mr. 
West's  estate  in  its  entirety.  What  disposition  she 
may  see  fit  to  make  of  it  afterward  is,  of  course, 
no  affair  of  mine."  He  turned  and  picked  up  his 
hat  and  coat  from  the  chair  where  Donald  had  placed 
them.  "  It  will  be  desirable,  Mrs.  Rogers,  for  you 


THE  BRUTE  171 

to  come  to  my  office  at  your  early  convenience  for 
a  business  consultation.  There  are  some  papers  I 
shall  want  you  to  sign.  If  possible,  I  should  be 
glad  to  have  you  come  to-morrow  —  say  at  twelve 
o'clock." 

"I  —  I  tell  you  I  don't  want  this  money,"  faltered 
Edith.  "  I—  I  have  no  right  to  it  —  " 

"  Mr.  Brennan  has  just  explained  to  you,  Edith, 
that  the  money  is  yours  by  law.  He  is  obliged  to 
turn  it  over  to  you.  I  can  understand,  of  course, 
that  it  is  a  great  surprise  to  you,  but  surely,  if  it 
was  his  wish,  there  is  no  reason  for  you  to  feel  so 
strongly  about  it."  She  fell  to  sobbing  softly  and, 
clutching  at  his  arm,  put  her  head  upon  it.  "  Don- 
ald —  oh,  Donald !  "  she  moaned. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Brennan,"  said  Donald,  turning  to 
the  lawyer,  "  that  you  can  depend  upon  Mrs.  Rogers 
coming  in  to  see  you  at  twelve  to-morrow.  Good- 
night." 

"  Good-night,"  said  the  lawyer,  as  he  bowed  and 
left  the  room. 

"  Think  of  what  this  money  will  mean,  Edith," 
exclaimed  her  mother,  her  face  aglow  with  anticipa- 
tion, "  to  you  —  to  Bobbie  —  to  all  of  us."  She 


172  THE  BRUTE 

looked  at  Alice  with  a  joyful  smile.  "  I  guess  we 
can  have  that  cottage  after  all." 

"Don't!  Don't!"  cried  Edith.  "My  God,  you 
don't  realize  what  you  are  saying." 

She  swayed  suddenly  forward,  overcome  by  the 
terrible  strain  of  the  past  half-hour,  and  fell  heavily 
to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XII 

AT  twelve  o'clock  the  following  day,  Edith 
Rogers  entered  the  offices  of  Messrs.  Gruber, 
McMillan,  Brennan  &  Shaw,  at  Number  11  Wall 
Street,  and  asked  to  see  Mr.  Brennan.  She  was  at 
once  ushered  into  the  latter's  private  office,  and  found 
him  awaiting  her. 

This  visit  to  Mr.  Brennan's  office  was  to  Edith 
an  ordeal  that  she  greatly  dreaded,  and  one  that 
it  had  required  all  of  her  courage  to  face.  All  the 
night  before  she  had  lain  awake,  thinking  about  it, 
and  even  with  the  coming  of  the  day  her  fears  had 
not  to  any  great  extent  left  her. 

For  one  thing,  however,  she  felt  thankful.  Donald 
had,  at  the  last  moment,  decided  not  to  accompany 
her.  At  first  he  had  insisted  upon  doing  so,  partly 
because  of  her  unfamiliarity  with  business  affairs, 
more  because  of  her  nervous  and  unstrung  condition, 
the  result  of  the  terrible  shock  which  the  news  of 
West's  death  had  given  her.  She  had  done  her  best 

to  conceal  her  sufferings,  or  at  least  so  to  modify 

173 


174  THE  BRUTE 

them  that  Donald  might  have  no  suspicion  of  their 
real  cause,  and  in  this  she  had  been  more  successful 
than  she  had  supposed  possible.  After  the  first 
shock  which  Mr.  Brennan's  words  had  given  her,  she 
was  conscious  of  a  reaction,  resulting  in  a  sort  of 
numbness,  in  which  her  mind  was  filled  less  with 
thoughts  of  the  man  she  had  supposed  she  loved  than 
with  a  ghastly  fear  lest  the  fact  of  this  love  might 
become  known  to  her  husband. 

Had  she  been  able  to  analyze,  during  all  the 
eternities  of  that  horrible  night,  the  cause  of  this 
fear,  she  might  have  realized  that  her  love  for  West 
had  been  no  love  at  all,  but  only  a  sudden  infatua- 
tion, born  of  her  overweening  vanity  and  love  for  the 
good  things  of  life  on  the  one  hand,  and  her  utter 
failure  to  appreciate  her  husband's  rugged  honesty 
of  purpose  on  the  other.  The  very  fact  that  her 
horror  at  the  thought  that  Donald  might  learn  of 
her  affair  with  West  overshadowed  all  else  in  her 
mind,  might  have  told  her  that  she  still  valued  her 
husband's  love  and  that  of  her  child,  far  above  that 
of  the  man  who  had  so  suddenly  been  taken  away 
from  her. 

Donald,  who  sat  beside  her  most  of  the  night,  was 


THE  BRUTE  175 

too  generous,  too  unsuspicious  a  nature,  to  attribute 
her  tears  to  anything  but  a  very  natural  grief  at  the 
loss  of  a  dear  friend.  He  felt  the  matter  keenly 
himself,  but,  man-like,  strove  to  hide  his  own  suffer- 
ings in  order  that  he  might  the  more  readily  com- 
fort her. 

Mrs.  Pope  and  Alice  had  remained  until  midnight. 
They  would  have  stayed  longer,  but  Edith  would  not 
permit  it.  "  I'm  all  right,  mother,"  she  said,  choking 
back  her  tears.  "  Go  home  and  get  your  rest.  I'll 
see  you  to-morrow." 

So  the  mother  departed,,  accompanied  by  Alice. 
Her  whole  attitude  toward  Edith  seemed  to  have  un- 
dergone a  sudden  transformation.  The  latter  was 
now  rich  —  the  possessor  of  half  a  million  dollars, 
and  hence  no  longer  to  be  criticised  or  blamed  for 
having  married  a  poor  man.  Even  toward  Donald 
her  manner  had  changed.  She  addressed  him  as  "  my 
dearest  boy,"  and  threw  out  vague  hints  concerning 
Edith's  and  Bobbie's  health  and  the  sea  air  which 
they  so  greatly  needed.  Donald  paid  little  attention 
to  her.  He  recognized  her  shallow-souled  adoration 
of  money  and  secretly  despised  it* 

It  was  after  they  had  gone,  and  Edith  had  lain 


176  THE  BRUTE 

sobbing  upon  the  bed  for  a  long  time,  that  Donald 
brought  up  the  subject  of  her  visit  to  Mr.  Brennan's 
office.  "  Perhaps  I  had  better  call  him  up  in  the 
morning  and  postpone  it,"  he  said.  "  Any  other 
day  will  do.  There  is  no  hurry,  and  I'm  afraid, 
dear,  that  you  are  hardly  in  a  condition  to  discuss 
business  matters." 

"Oh  —  no — no.  I'd  better  go  and  get  it  over 
with."  She  dried  her  eyes  and  sat  up,  looking  at 
him,  half-frightened.  "  I'll  be  all  right  in  the  morn- 
ing. I'd  better  go." 

"  Very  well,  if  you  think  best.  Of  course  I  shall 
go  with  you,  and,  really,  the  whole  affair  need  not 
take  long." 

The  thought  that  Donald  was  to  be  with  her  was 
terrifying.  For  a  time  she  was  afraid  to  speak. 
She  did  not  know  what  Mr.  Brennan  might  have 
learned  about  herself  and  West  —  what  information 
might  have  come  to  him  along  with  the  dead  man's 
papers  and  effects.  Suppose  Donald  were  to  find 
out.  She  glanced  at  his  careworn  face,  upon  which 
the  lines  of  suffering  were  set  deep,  and  her  heart 
smote  her.  He  must  never  find  out.  After  a  time 
she  spoke. 


THE  BRUTE  177 

"  I  think,  Donald,  that  perhaps  I  had  better  go 
alone." 

"  Why  ?  "     He  seemed  surprised. 

"  Oh  —  I  can  hardly  say.  Mr.  Brennan  might 
prefer  it  so.  Don't  you  think  it  would  look  just  a 
little  — bad  — '  for  both  of  us  to  go  —  as  though 
we  were  so  anxious  for  poor  —  Billy's  —  money?" 
Her  tears  broke  out  afresh. 

He  regarded  the  idea  as  a  foolish  whim,  born  of 
her  hysterical  condition,  but  good-naturedly  humored 
her.  "  I'm  not  at  all  anxious  to  go,"  he  said. 
"  Poor  Billy  —  I  don't  want  his  money.  I  only  sug- 
gested going  with  you  because  I  thought  you  would 
rather  not  go  alone.  We  can  decide  in  the  morning, 
however.  You'd  better  lie  down  now,  and  try  to  get 
some  sleep." 

Edith  began  slowly  to  undress.  As  she  did  so, 
the  letter  from  West,  which  she  had  been  carrying 
about  in  her  bosom  all  day,  fell  to  the  floor.  Donald 
picked  it  up  with  a  queer  little  smile  and  returned 
it  to  her.  "  Poor  old  Billy !  "  he  murmured.  "  How 
strange,  to  think  that  we  shall  never  see  his  hand- 
writing again !  " 

The  incident   increased  Edith's   fears ;  the  letter 


178  THE  BRUTE 

was  filled  with  expressions  of  love,  and  Donald,  un- 
suspecting, trusting  her  always,  had  not  even  asked 
to  see  it.  She  went  into  the  kitchen  on  the  plea  of 
making  a  cup  of  tea,  and  burned  the  letter  at  the 
gas  range,  fearful  every  moment  that  he  would  come 
in  and  see  what  she  was  doing.  There  were  many 
other  similar  letters,  locked  in  a  drawer  of  her  bu  • 
reau.  She  determined  to  destroy  these  as  well,  in 
the  morning. 

Later  on,  Donald  slept,  supposing  that  she  was 
doing  likewise,  but  she  only  made  pretense,  designed 
to  hide  her  feelings.  She  sobbed  softly  to  herself 
throughout  the  long  hours  till  daybreak,  but  morn- 
ing found  her  dry-eyed,  ready  to  face  whatever  dis- 
aster the  day  might  bring. 

Mr.  Brennan  was  standing  behind  his  broad  ma- 
hogany table-desk,  his  eyeglasses  in  one  hand,  the 
other  grasping  a  package.  Edith,  in  her  agitation, 
did  not  observe  the  latter.  She  sank  into  a  big 
leather-covered  chair  and  looked  at  the  lawyer  ex- 
pectantly. 

He  pushed  some  papers  across  the  desk  to  her  and 
requested  her  to  sign  them.  She  did  so,  without 
reading  them,  or  knowing  what  they  were.  These 


THE  BRUTE  179 

formalities  completed,  he  drew  the  package,  which 
appeared  to  contain  a  large  number  of  letters,  toward 
him  and  began  to  tap  it  in  gently  emphatic  fashion 
with  his  eyeglasses. 

"  There  is  a  certain  matter,  Mrs.  Rogers,  about 
which  I  must  speak  to  you,"  he  began,  after  a  long 
contemplation  of  the  letters. 

"Yes?"  she  answered,  with  a  rising  inflection. 
Something  in  his  manner  warned  her  that  what  he 
was  about  to  say  would  concern  her  very  deeply. 

"  When  Mr.  West  died,  his  papers  and  other  effects 
were  forwarded  to  me,  as  executor  of  the  estate. 
Among  them  I  find  these  letters."  He  indicated  the 
package  on  the  desk  before  him. 

"  Yes !  "  she  repeated,  her  heart  sinking.  A  cold 
perspiration  broke  out  all  over  her.  She  wiped  her 
lips  with  the  ineffective  bit  of  lace  which  she  held 
crushed  in  her  hand. 

Brennan  reached  over,  took  up  the  bundle  of  let- 
ters, and  handed  it  to  her.  He  knew  from  the  hand- 
writing, from  the  initials  with  which  they  were  signed, 
from  all  the  attendant  circumstances,  that  she  had 
written  them.  "  As  executor  of  the  estate,  Mrs. 
Rogers,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  feel  that  the  best  use  I 


180  THE  BRUTE 

can  make  of  these  letters  is  to  turn  them  over  to 
you." 

For  a  moment  she  hardly  grasped  his  meaning. 
His  grave  manner  of  speaking  had  made  her  believe 
that  some  terrible  fate  overhung  her  —  some  mysteri- 
ous requirement  of  the  law  which  she  did  not  realize, 
or  understand.  Now,  since  it  appeared  that  the  only 
disposition  of  the  letters  that  Brennan  intended  to 
make  was  to  hand  them  over  to  her,  she  could 
scarcely  believe  that  she  had  understood  him  aright. 
"  You  —  you  mean  that  I  am  to  —  to  take  them  ?  " 
she  said  haltingly. 

"  Yes.  Take  them,  and,  madam,  if  you  will  per- 
mit me  to  advise  you,  I  strongly  recommend  that 
you  lose  no  time  in  destroying  them." 

The  color  flew  to  her  cheeks  at  his  tone,  implying 
as  it  did  the  guilty  nature  of  the  correspondence. 
It  terrified  her  to  think  that  this  man  had  it  in  his 
power  to  destroy  her  utterly,  merely  by  saying  a  few 
words  to  her  husband.  Yet  he  could  not  have  any 
such  intention,  else  why  should  he  advise  her  to  de- 
stroy the  evidence  of  her  folly,  her  guilt  ?  She  took 
the  letters  with  trembling  fingers  and  thrust  them 
into  her  handbag.  "  I  will  destroy  them  at  once," 


THE  BRUTE  181 

she  said  faintly,  but  very  eagerly,  hardly  daring  to 
look  at  him. 

The  further  conversation  between  them  was  short. 
Mr.  Brennan  informed  her  that  he  would  be  happy 
to  advance  her  any  money  she  might  need,  pending 
the  legal  formalities  attendant  upon  the  administra- 
tion of  the  estate.  She  thanked  him  with  down- 
cast eyes,  but  assured  him  that  she  would  not  re- 
quire any.  The  thought  of  touching  any  of  West's 
money  horrified  her.  Her  one  concern  had  been  to 
keep  the  knowledge  of  their  mutual  love  from  Don- 
ald —  this,  she  felt,  was  now  accomplished.  To  the 
money  she  did  not  at  this  time  give  so  much  as  a 
single  thought.  On  her  way  up-town  she  made  a  sin- 
cere effort  to  analyze  her  feelings.  Why  had  West's 
death  not  affected  her  more  deeply?  Why  had  the 
most  important  feature  of  the  whole  affair  been  her 
desire  to  keep  the  truth  from  Donald?  The  answer 
came,  clear  and  vivid.  It  was  Bobbie.  She  feared 
the  destruction  of  her  home  on  his  account.  It  was 
love  for  him  that  had  caused  her  to  repent  of  her 
promise  to  West  to  go  away  with  him,  even  before 
the  latter  had  much  more  than  started  on  his  way 
to  Denver. 


182  THE  BRUTE 

The  thought  pursued  her  all  the  way  home. 
When  she  arrived,  Bobbie  had  finished  his  luncheon 
and  was  just  going  out  with  Nellie.  She  went  up  to 
the  boy  and  clasped  him  in  her  arms.  "  Dear  little 
man ! "  she  said  as  she  kissed  him,  then  noticed,  in 
her  sudden  thought  of  him,  how  pale  and  thin  he 
looked.  "  Run  along  now,  dear.  The  more  fresh 
air  you  get,  the  better." 

After  the  child  had  gone,  and  she  was  alone,  she 
took  the  letters  Mr.  Brennan  had  given  her,  drew 
from  her  bureau  drawer  those  she  had  received  from 
West,  and,  without  looking  at  any  of  them,  proceeded 
to  make  a  bonfire  of  them  all  in  a  tin  basin  in  the 
kitchen.  It  seemed  hard  to  destroy  his  letters. 
They  had  meant  so  much  to  her  when  she  had  re- 
ceived them.  For  a  moment  she  was  tempted  to  read 
them  all  through  for  the  last  time,  but  the  fear  that, 
should  she  do  so,  she  might  weaken  in  her  intention 
to  destroy  them  stopped  her.  Donald  must  never 
know  —  Donald  must  never  know.  These  let- 
ters were  the  only  proof  in  the  whole  world  of 
her  wrong-doing.  She  applied  a  match  to  the 
mass  of  paper  with  trembling  fingers,  and,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  watched  the  flames  mount  and 


THE  BRUTE  183 

crackle,   the  sheets  blacken   and  fall  to   soft  gray 
dust. 

In  a  short  time  the  little  funeral  pyre  —  it  seemed 
to  her  the  funeral  pyre  of  the  past  —  with  all  her 
hopes  and  fears,  her  guilt  and  her  love,  had  crum- 
bled to  a  tiny  pile  of  ashes.  She  threw  them  out  of 
the  window  and  watched  them  blow  hither  and 
thither  in  the  eddying  currents  of  wind.  When  she 
had  closed  the  window,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had 
also  closed  the  door  upon  the  past.  Before  her  the 
future  lay  bright  and  smiling.  She  did  not  admit 
for  a  moment  to  herself  that  its  brightness  might  be 
a  reflection  from  Billy  West's  gold.  The  very 
thought  would  have  made  her  shudder.  Neverthe- 
less, the  knowledge  that  one  has  half  a  million  dol- 
lars in  the  bank  is  apt  to  lend  a  brightness  to  the 
future,  no  matter  how  clouded  the  immediate  present 
may  be. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

IT  took  Edith  Rogers  many  weeks  to  make  up  her 
mind  to  spend  any  of  William  West's  money, 
and  then  she  did  it  on  account  of  Bobbie.  Her 
mother  had  used  every  effort  to  convince  her  that 
she  was  acting  like  a  fool  in  not  launching  out  at 
once  upon  a  career  of  wild  extravagance,  but  the 
thought  of  her  love  for  West,  the  folly  she  had  con- 
templated, the  latter's  sudden  and  tragic  death,  all 
filled  her  with  horror.  The  money  lay  idly  in  the 
bank,  and  she  could  not  bring  herself  to  touch  it. 

With  the  coming  of  the  hot  weather,  however,  she 
began  to  listen  to  her  mother's  arguments  with  a 
more  willing  ear.  Bobbie  was  clearly  not  well.  His 
cough,  product  of  a  March  cold,  still  hung  on  in 
spite  of  all  her  efforts.  His  appetite  was  failing, 
his  cheeks  pale  and  wan.  She  felt  the  desirability 
of  getting  him  away  from  the  oven-like  city  at  once, 
and  one  evening  broached  the  subject  to  Donald. 

"  Don't  you  think,  dear,"  she  said,  "  that  I  ought 

to  take  Bobbie  to  the  sea-shore?  " 

184 


THE  BRUTE  185 

Donald  looked  up  quickly.  "  I  do,  indeed,"  he 
said.  "  I've  thought  so  for  some  time." 

"  Then  why  haven't  you  said  anything  about  it?  " 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,  dear.  I  know  how  you 
have  felt  about  using  this  money  that  West  left  you, 
and  I  hesitated  to  suggest  it  on  that  account." 

"  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  use  it?  " 

"  I  can  see  no  reason  why  you  should  not.  His 
wish  was  that  you  should  have  it.  He  wanted  you 
to  enjoy  it,  otherwise  he  would  not  have  left  it  to 
you.  I  regretted  the  poor  old  chap's  death  quite  as 
keenly  as  you  did,  but  for  all  that  I  cannot  see  why 
you  should  feel  so  strongly  about  this  money." 

Edith  knew  very  well  that  he  could  not  see  why  she 
felt  as  she  did,  nor  had  she  any  intention  of  allowing 
him  to  do  so.  "  Very  well,"  she  replied  quietly. 
"  I  think  I'll  look  for  a  cottage  somewhere  along  the 
Sound  to-morrow.  That  would  be  much  nicer  than 
staying  at  a  hotel,  and  you  could  come  down  every 
week  end.  In  fact,  Donald,  I  don't  see  why  you 
couldn't  just  as  well  give  up  business  altogether,  and 
spend  the  summer  with  us.  In  the  fall  we  might  go 
abroad." 

He   frowned   at   this.     "  I   couldn't   think  of  it, 


186  THE  BRUTE 

dear,"  he  replied.  "  I've  got  my  practise  to  keep 
up  and  the  business  in  West  Virginia  to  look  after. 
I  shouldn't  care  to  live  on  you,  you  know."  He 
smiled,  and,  coming  over  to  her,  patted  her  head  af- 
fectionately. "  It's  very  good  of  you,  Edith,  to 
want  me  with  you,  and  I  should  enjoy  it  more  than  I 
can  tell  you,  but  I  couldn't  give  up  my  work,  my  in- 
dependence. You  wouldn't  respect  me  if  I  did." 

She  did  not  attempt  to  argue  the  question  with 
him.  Perhaps  in  her  heart  she  felt  that  he  was 
right.  "  Mother  is  coming  up  to-morrow  morning," 
she  said.  "  I  think  I'll  try  New  London.  I  was 
there  one  summer  for  a  month  when  father  was  alive, 
and  I  have  never  forgotten  how  lovely  it  was. 
Mother  knows  all  about  it.  We'll  run  up  there  to- 
morrow and  see  what  we  can  find." 

Led  by  Mrs.  Pope,  the  expedition  in  search  of  a 
cottage  by  the  sea  was  an  unqualified  success. 
Edith  had  had  in  mind  a  small  bungalow  —  a  tiny 
house  with  a  view  of  the  water,  but  Mrs.  Pope  was 
burdened  with  no  such  plebeian  ideas.  To  her 
money-loving  mind  a  cottage  such  as  befitted  her 
daughter's  newly  acquired  wealth  consisted  of  a  pic- 
turesque mansion  of  some  eighteen  or  twenty  rooms, 


THE  BRUTE  187 

with  a  private  bathing  beach,  extensive  grounds, 
garage,  stables,  and  a  retinue  of  servants. 

She  had  some  little  difficulty  in  finding  what  she 
wanted.  Edith  remonstrated  with  her  continually, 
but  she  was  not  to  be  balked.  She  told  the  real-es- 
tate agent  to  whom  they  had  gone  on  their  arrival 
that  her  daughter  was  prepared  to  pay  as  high  as 
five  hundred  dollars  a  month,  for  the  proper  accom- 
modations, furnished,  and  she  refused  quite  definitely 
to  consider  anything  that  did  not  front  on  the 
water. 

There  were  but  three  places  answering  her  descrip- 
tion that  were  available.  The  first  Edith  thought 
perfect,  but  her  mother  dismissed  it  at  once. 
"  Quite  too  small,  my  dear,"  she  remarked,  with  up- 
turned nose.  "  And  I  never  could  endure  a  house 
with  no  conservatory." 

The  second  place  had  a  conservatory,  it  seemed, 
but  Mrs.  Pope  found  the  plumbing  antiquated,  the 
number  of  bathrooms  insufficient,  and  the  furnish- 
ings not  at  all  to  her  taste. 

"  We  shall  entertain  a  great  deal,"  she  informed 
the  overpowered  real-estate  man,  who  was  mentally 
trying  to  adapt  Mrs.  Pope's  extravagant  ideas  to 


188  THE  BRUTE 

her  anything  but  extravagant  clothes.  Edith  won- 
dered whom  they  were  going  to  entertain,  but  fore- 
bore  asking  her  mother  at  this  time. 

The  third  place  withstood  even  Mrs.  Pope's  at- 
tempts at  criticism,  and  Edith  fell  in  love  with  it  at 
once.  It  was  not  quite  so  large  as  they  had  wanted, 
her  mother  remarked,  but  it  might  do.  Edith  was 
very  sure  that  it  would  do.  The  house,  a  long,  low, 
shingled  affair,  with  many  timbered  gables,  was 
partly  overgrown  with  ivy.  Climbing  roses,  in  full 
bloom,  embowered  the  wide  verandas.  The  gardens 
were  filled  with  handsome  shrubbery  and  well-kept 
flower  beds.  There  was  a  stable,  a  greenhouse,  and 
a  little  boathouse  and  wharf.  The  lawns  were  im- 
maculate, the  furnishings  within  artistic  and  costly. 
The  agent  explained  that  Mr.  Sheridan,  the  banker, 
who  owned  the  house,  had  left  unexpectedly  for  Eu- 
rope the  week  before,  and  the  place  had  just  been 
placed  on  the  market.  Mr.  Sheridan  had  intended 
to  occupy  it  himself  until  the  last  moment,  but  his 
wife  had  been  taken  ill,  and  was  obliged  to  go  to  one 
of  the  Continental  baths  to  be  cured.  The  price 
was  two  thousand  dollars  for  the  season,  and  would 
have  been-  a  great  deal  more  had  the  place  been  put 


THE  BRUTE  189 

on  the  market  a  month  earlier.  Two  parties  had 
looked  at  it  already,  and  it  was  not  likely  to  remain 
unoccupied  very  long. 

"  We'll  take  it,"  said  Mrs.  Pope  promptly. 
"  We'll  move  in  on  Monday."  She  began  to  plan 
aloud  the  disposition  of  the  various  bedrooms. 

Mr.  Hull,  the  agent,  on  the  way  to  town,  sug- 
gested the  necessity  of  executing  a  lease  and  making 
a  deposit  to  bind  the  bargain.  "  My  daughter  will 
give  you  a  check  for  the  first  month's  rent  in  ad- 
vance," said  Mrs.  Pope  loftily.  "  You  have  your 
check-book  with  you,  my  dear,  I  hope?  " 

Edith  had.  Her  mother  had  insisted  upon  her 
taking  it  when  they  left  the  house.  The  first  check 
she  made  against  the  income  which  William  West's 
half-million  of  capital  was  piling  up  to  her  credit 
at  the  bank  was  one  for  five  hundred  dollars  to  the 
order  of  Thomas  Hull,  agent.  She  signed  it  with 
trembling  fingers. 

Once  the  plunge  was  taken,  however,  the  rest 
seemed  easy.  On  the  journey  home  Mrs.  Pope 
mapped  out  a  campaign  of  shopping  that  made  her 
daughter's  head  whirl,  but  she  had  ceased  to  object. 
One  thing  she  insisted  upon,  in  addition  to  her  moth- 


190  THE  BRUTE 

er's  never-ending  list  of  clothes,  and  that  was  a  pony 
and  cart  for  Bobbie.  It  had  been  the  constant  de- 
sire of  his  childish  heart,  ever  since  he  had  ridden 
in  one  the  summer  before  at  Brighton.  Mrs.  Pope 
approved  the  cart.  She  also  suggested  an  automo- 
bile. 

When  Edith  told  Donald  of  the  result  of  their 
trip  that  night  his  face  became  grave,  but  he  said 
little.  "  It  is  your  money,  dear,"  he  contented  him- 
self with  observing,  "  but  if  I  were  you  I  would  not 
allow  my  mother  to  influence  me  too  much.  She  has 
foolishly  extravagant  ideas.  There  is  no  use  in  bur- 
dening yourself  with  a  mansion  and  a  house  full  of 
servants  just  because  you  can  afford  it.  The  air 
isn't  any  sweeter,  the  sun  any  brighter,  because  of 
them.  I  should  have  preferred  a  more  modest  es- 
tablishment myself,  but  I  suppose  it's  too  late  to 
change  matters  now.  I  hope  you  have  a  wonderful 
summer,  and  that  Bobbie  and  yourself  get  as  well 
and  strong  as  I  should  like  to  see  you.  I  can't  be 
with  you  except  on  Saturdays  and  Sundays,  but  no 
doubt  your  mother  and  Alice  will  keep  you  com- 


pany." 


Yes.     They  will  be  with  me,  of  course.     Mother 


THE  BRUTE  191 

says  she  is  looking  forward  to  the  happiest  summer 
of  her  life.  She  hopes,  too,  she  says,  to  entertain  a 
great  deal." 

"Entertain?     Whom?" 

"  Why,  all  her  old  friends.  And  I'm  going  to 
have  some  of  mine  down,  too,  and  Alice  has  already 
invited  Mr.  Hall  to  spend  a  week  or  two  with  us. 
He  is  coming  east  for  his  vacation." 

Donald  raised  his  eyebrows.  "  I  don't  mind  the 
opinions  of  other  people  as  a  rule,"  he  remarked, 
"  but  how  do  you  propose  to  explain  our  sudden 
wealth?" 

Edith  had  not  thought  of  that  aspect  of  the  mat- 
ter. "  I  shall  tell  them  the  truth,"  she  answered,  but 
the  suggestion  bothered  her  for  many  days  there- 
after. She  by  no  means  intended  to  tell  her  friends 
the  truth.  Such  of  them  as  had  already  heard  the 
news  had  congratulated  her  upon  her  good  fortune, 
with  a  secret  wonder  that  West  had  left  the  money 
to  her  instead  of  to  Donald,  but  Mrs.  Pope,  with 
characteristic  bluntness,  had  set  this  right.  "  Poor, 
dear  Mr.  West  had  always  been  in  love  with  my 
Edith,"  she  said.  "  He'd  have  married  her,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  Donald.  He  hadn't  anyone  else 


192  THE  BRUTE 

to  leave  his  money  to,  and,  of  course,  he  left  it  to 
Edith.  He  was  a  noble  young  man.  We  owe  him 
a  great  deal." 

Edith  shuddered  as  she  listened,  but  could  say 
nothing.  Once  she  ventured  the  remark  that  Mr. 
West  had  been  Donald's  lifelong  friend,  but  her 
mother  would  have  none  of  it.  "  Pooh !  "  she  said. 
"  It  was  you  he  cared  for,  my  dear.  Anyone  with 
half  an  eye  could  see  that.  Didn't  he  spend  all  his 
time  with  you,  right  up  to  the  time  he  died? " 
After  that  Edith  ceased  to  remonstrate.  She  felt 
that  in  this  direction  she  was  treading  on  dangerous 
ground. 

Once  launched  upon  a  career  of  spending,  Edith 
soon  came  to  acquire  the  habit,  as  any  other  habit 
may  be  acquired,  if  dutifully  persisted  in.  A  few 
weeks  before  she  would  have  stood  aghast  at  the 
mere  thought  of  paying  fifty  dollars  for  a  hat. 
Now  she  bought  costly  hand-made  lingerie  dresses 
with  the  calm  assurance  of  one  whose  bank-account 
is  increasing  at  the  rate  of  a  thousand  dollars  a 
week,  and  signed  checks  in  an  off-hand  manner  that 
seemed  as  natural  to  her  as  though  she  had  never 
haggled  over  a  bargain  counter,  or  searched  the  col- 


THE  BRUTE  193 

limns    of    the    daily    papers    for    opportunities    at 
marked-down  sales. 

She  failed  to  satisfy  her  mother,  however.  That 
estimable  lady  seemed  to  think  that  Edith's  wealth 
was  measured  only  by  the  number  of  checks  in  her 
check  book,  and  criticised  her  daughter  loudly  for 
her  petty  economies.  "  Don't  buy  those  cheap 
shoes,  Edith,"  she  would  remark.  "  It's  quite  im- 
possible to  get  anything  fit  to  wear  for  less  than  ten 
dollars  a  pair."  Or,  "  Ready-made  corsets,  my  dear, 
are  an  abomination.  I  insist  that  you  go  at  once 
and  be  measured  for  half  a  dozen  pair  that  will  really 
fit."  Edith  drew  the  line  at  such  extravagances, 
and  very  nearly  precipitated  a  row.  "  Let  me  alone, 
mother,"  she  said.  "  I  know  what  I  want,  and,  after 
all,  it  is  my  money  we  are  spending,  not  yours."  My 
money!  The  irony  of  the  thing  did  not  occur  to 
her.  She  bought  Donald  a  new  gold  watch-chain, 
with  match-box,  cigar-cutter,  knife,  pencil  and  seals, 
all  of  gold,  attached.  When  she  presented  it  to  him, 
she  felt  disappointed  at  his  lack  of  enthusiasm,  and 
wondered  why  he  did  not  wear  it.  The  reason  was 
simple  —  as  simple  and  homely  as  Donald  himself. 
He  detested  jewelry,  and  contented  himself  with  the 


194  THE  BRUTE 

leather  fob  initialed  in  gold  which  Edith  had  given 
him,  years  before,  upon  a  birthday.  He  had  loved 
this,  because  she  had  saved  and  denied  herself  to  get 
it  for  him.  The  other,  somehow,  meant  nothing  to 
him. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

EMERSON  HALL  was  a  young  civil  engineer, 
who  had  pushed  his  way  to  the  front  in  his 
chosen  profession  because  he  had  both  energy  and 
ability.  He  had  been  graduated  from  Columbia 
some  year  or  two  later  than  Donald,  and  had  at  once 
left  New  York  for  Chicago,  where  he  had  entered 
the  employ  of  a  large  contracting  company.  Sheer 
hard  work  had  forced  him  to  the  front,  and  he  was 
now  one  of  the  concern's  most  trusted  men. 

Alice  Rogers  he  had  met,  some  time  before,  at  a 
commencement  hop,  and  he  had  straightway  fallen 
in  love  with  her.  Being  in  New  York  but  seldom, 
he  had  seen  very  little  of  her,  but  the  impression 
she  had  made  upon  him  persisted,  and  their  court- 
ship, carried  on  largely  by  means  of  an  extensive 
correspondence,  had  progressed  so  favorably  that 
Mrs.  Pope  felt  obliged  to  place  him  under  the  ban 
of  her  displeasure.  Alice,  however,  paid  little  at- 
tention to  her  mother's  objections.  She  had  a  very 

clear  idea  of  what  she  wanted  in  the  world,  and  what 

195 


196  THE  BRUTE 

she  wanted  she  determined  to  get.  Emerson  Hall 
was  one  of  the  things  she  wanted,  and  she  bent  all 
her  energies  to  the  task  of  making  that  young 
man  conclude  that  life  without  her  to  share  it  would 
be  but  a  barren  waste. 

Pursuant  to  her  intentions,  Alice  had  written  to 
Mr.  Hall,  inviting  him  to  spend  his  vacation  with 
them  at  New  London.  She  had  asked  Edith's  per- 
mission, and  the  latter  had  granted  it  gladly.  The 
latter  had  never  met  Mr.  Hall,  but  she  felt  as  though 
she  almost  knew  him,  both  because  he  had  been  an 
acquaintance  of  Donald's  and  because  Alice  talked 
about  him  so  much.  Then,  too,  she  felt  that  she 
owed  him  some  recompense  for  his  services  at  the 
time  of  West's  death.  He  had  gone  to  the  hospital, 
in  answer  to  Alice's  wire,  only  to  find  that  West  had 
died  some  three  days  before.  This  information  he 
had  wired  to  Alice  the  following  day. 

The  two  girls  looked  forward  to  his  coming  with 
delight.  The  extensive  entertaining  which  Mrs. 
Pope  had  planned  had  failed  to  materialize.  She 
found  that,  after  dropping  from  her  visiting-list  the 
friends  of  her  poverty,  there  remained  but  few  among 
the  elect  whose  acquaintance  she  might  claim,  and 


THE  BRUTE  197 

these,  it  seemed,  were  mostly  away  for  the  summer. 

Hence  the  two  girls  were  somewhat  lonely  in  the 
big  and  stately  house,  and  Edith  found  that  the  time 
between  Monday  morning,  when  Donald  departed 
for  the  city,  and  Saturday  afternoon,  when  he  re- 
turned, hung  heavily  upon  her  hands. 

She  had  no  housekeeping  details  to  occupy  her  — 
Mrs.  Pope  had  insisted  upon  a  competent  house- 
keeper; her  duties  were  confined  to  signing  checks, 
her  pleasures,  to  enjoying  Bobbie's  delight  in  his 
surroundings.  His  pony  cart,  the  boat  she  had 
got  for  him,  all  his  new  experiences,  made  the 
child  feel  that  he  had  suddenly  entered  heaven  itself. 
His  cough,  his  pale  cheeks,  his  fretful  nights  were  a 
thing  of  the  past.  He  lived  the  life  of  a  little  sav- 
age and  health  flowed  in  upon  him  accordingly. 

Mrs.  Pope  did  not  share  her  daughter's  loneliness. 
The  atmosphere  in  which  she  now  lived  and  moved 
charmed  her.  With  Alice  and  Edith  at  her  side,  a 
houseful  of  expensive  and  competent  servants  to 
gratify  her  slightest  wish,  with  Donald  on  hand  only 
over  the  week  ends,  she  felt  that  her  cup  of  blessed- 
ness was  once  more  filled  to  the  brim. 

It    was    late    Saturday    afternoon.     The    Sound 


198  THE  BRUTE 

lay  sparkling  in  the  hot  August  sunshine.  Mrs. 
Pope  came  into  the  handsomely  appointed  hall  of 
their  new  home,  and  sank  heavily  into  a  padded- 
leather  chair.  After  all,  she  felt,  this  was  indeed 
life  in  its  fullest  sense.  She  fanned  herself  lan- 
guidly with  a  lace  fan,  regarding  her  elaborate  gown, 
meanwhile,  with  much  satisfaction.  She  glanced  up 
as  Edith  entered  the  room,  looking  very  lovely  in  a 
costume  of  white  lace. 

"  Has  Alice  come  back  from  the  station  yet, 
mother  ?  "  inquired  Edith. 

"  Not  yet,  my  dear.  I'm  waiting  for  her  now.  I 
suppose  I  am  expected  to  welcome  this  young  Hall 
—  though  I  can't  say  I  want  to.  I  wish  Alice  had 
not  invited  him.  If  she  would  take  my  advice,  she 
would  send  him  about  his  business.  Four  thousand 
a  year!  Pooh!  a  beggar! 

"  Well,  mother,  now  that  we  have  asked  him,  we 
must  make  him  welcome.  How  do  you  like  my 
dress  ?  "  She  came  around  in  front  of  her  mother's 
chair. 

Mrs.  Pope  observed  it  critically  through  her 
gold  lorgnon.  "  Oh,  it  will  do,  my  dear,"  she  re- 
plied. "  I  should  have  preferred  the  Irish  point." 


THE  BRUTE  199 

"  But,  mother,  it  was  five  hundred  dollars." 

"What  of  it?  Why  shouldn't  you  look  as  well 
as  possible?  Of  course,  Donald  would  never  care, 
but  there  are  others.  I  heard  several  people  at  the 
hotel  say  last  night  that  you  were  the  best-looking 
and  the  best-dressed  woman  there." 

"I  don't  care  what  they  said,  mother,"  replied 
Edith,  selecting  a  rose  from  a  jar  on  the  table, 
and  putting  it  in  her  bosom.  "  I'd  rather  please 
Donald." 

Mrs.  Pope  sniffed  audibly.  "  Oh,  very  well,  my 
dear,"  she  observed.  "  Have  your  own  way.  It's 
some  satisfaction,  at  least,  to  know  that  you  can 
buy  a  dress  when  you  feel  like  it,  without  having  to 
account  to  your  husband  for  it.  My  poor,  dear 
J.  B.  always  gave  me  a  most  liberal  allowance.  I 
never  could  dress  on  less  than  three  thousand  a 
year." 

"  Well,  mother,  you  know  you  did  manage  to  get 
along  on  much  less,  the  last  few  years." 

Mrs.  Pope  assumed  a  deeply  hurt  expression. 
"  Edith,"  she  exclaimed  irritably,  "  it  is  most  un- 
kind of  you  to  remind  me  of  my  temporary  poverty. 
Before  my  poor,  dear  J.  B.  died  —  " 


200  THE  BRUTE 

"Frightfully  hot  this  evening,  isn't  it?"  Edith 
interrupted. 

The  mother  glared  at  her  daughter  in  annoyance. 
"  Where's  Donald  ?  "  she  suddenly  asked. 

"  In  his  room,  mother." 

"  Didn't  he  get  here  on  the  five-o'clock  train?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  doesn't  he  come  downstairs  ?  I  hope 
he  bought  the  afternoon  papers." 

"  They're  in  the  library.  Donald  says  the  trip 
down  was  terribly  hot  and  stuffy.  He's  changing 
his  things." 

Mrs.  Pope  snorted.  "  If  he  would  spend  the  sum- 
mer down  here  with  you,  as  a  husband  ought,  instead 
of  staying  in  town,  fooling  with  that  engineering 
work  of  his,  he  wouldn't  have  that  hot  trip  to  make 
every  Saturday." 

"  Nonsense,  mother !  "  replied  Edith.  "  Donald  is 
perfectly  right.  I  wouldn't  want  him  to  become  an 
idler,  living  on  his  wife.  He  has  too  much  spirit  for 
that." 

"  Then  if  he  must  stay  in  town,  why  doesn't  he 
get  a  decent  place  to  live?  I  don't  think  it  looks  well 
for  him  to  be  staying  at  that  cheap  little  flat,  now 


THE  BRUTE  £01 

that  you  have  plenty  of  money  to  take  your  proper 
place  in  society." 

"  He  likes  the  old  place.  He  says  he  was  happy 
there.  He  thought  he  might  as  well  stay  on  till 
the  lease  expired." 

"  Well,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes.  If  you 
are  satisfied,  I  see  no  reason  why  I  should  object." 
Mrs.  Pope  began  to  fan  herself  vigorously.  "  I  can 
get  along  very  well  without  him." 

Mrs.  Rogers  went  to  the  door  and  looked  down 
the  long,  shady  drive. 

"  Alice  seems  to  be  gone  a  long  time.  I  hope  the 
machine  hasn't  broken  down." 

"  The  train  is  probably  late.  They  generally  are 
on  this  road.  What  room  are  you  going  to  give 
Mr.  Hall?" 

"  I  thought  I'd  give  him  the  one  over  the  library," 
said  Edith,  as  she  resumed  her  chair.  "  It  has  a 
lovely  view  of  the  Sound.  I  know  he'll  be  glad 
enough  to  see  it  again  after  being  West  over  six 
months." 

Mrs.  Pope  snorted  indignantly.  "  I  wish  he  had 
stayed  there,"  she  grumbled.  "  I  cannot  imagine 
what  Alice  sees  in  him  to  rave  about." 


202  THE  BRUTE 

"  Donald  tells  me  he's  a  very  bright  fellow.  He 
knew  him  in  college.  She  might  do  a  great  deal 
worse." 

"  Not  much.  Why  can't  she  pick  out  a  man  of 
means,  like  poor  Mr.  West  was?  Think  of  what  we 
owe  that  poor  young  man !  " 

"  Don't,  mother !  "  Edith  cried.     "  Please !  " 

She  rose  and  went  to  the  fireplace,  her  face  con- 
vulsed with  emotion. 

"  Why  is  it,  Edith,  that  you  always  seem  annoyed 
whenever  I  speak  of  Mr.  West?  You  don't  show 
proper  feeling.  Think  of  all  you  owe  him.  I  don't 
see  how  you  can  let  a  day  pass  without  thanking  him 
from  the  bottom  of  your  heart  for  all  the  happiness 
he  has  given  you." 

"  I  appreciate  it  very  much,  mother."  Edith's 
voice  trembled  —  there  was  a  trace  of  a  sob  in  it. 

"  You  certainly  do  not  act  like  it,"  pursued  her 
mother  relentlessly.  "  Every  time  I  mention  his 
name  you  change  the  subject." 

Edith  turned,  her  face  flushing.  "  Can't  you  see," 
she  cried,  "  how  it  hurts  me?  I  don't  want  to  be 
reminded  of  his  death  every  minute  of  the  day.  God 
knows,  I  wish  he  were  alive  again !  " 


THE  BRUTE  203 

"  There's  no  use  in  wishing  that,  my  dear,"  re- 
marked her  mother.  "  God,  in  His  wisdom,  orders 
all  things  for  the  best."  She  glanced  about  the 
richly  furnished  room  with  a  satisfied  smile. 

Edith  was  about  to  reply,  when  the  afternoon 
stillness  was  broken  by  the  sound  of  wheels  upon  the 
gravel  road,  accompanied  by  the  honk  of  an  auto- 
mobile horn.  She  hurried  to  the  door,  and,  as  she 
did  so,  Alice  appeared,  accompanied  by  a  heavily 
built  young  fellow  in  blue  serge,  carrying  a  suit-case. 
Mrs.  Pope  rose. 

"  Well,  mother,  we're  here  at  last,"  cried  Alice. 
"  The  train  was  fifteen  minutes  late."  She  turned 
to  the  man  behind  her.  "  Mother,  you  know  Mr. 
Hall." 

"  My  dear  Mr.  Hall,  I'm  so  glad  to  see  you !  "  said 
Mrs.  Pope  effusively,  as  she  offered  the  newcomer  her 
hand. 

Mr.  Hall  shook  hands.  He  was  a  genial,  whole- 
souled  sort  of  a  fellow,  and,  as  he  turned  to  acknowl- 
edge his  introduction  to  Edith,  she  felt  an  instinctive 
liking  for  him.  He  was  telling  Mrs.  Pope  how  glad 
he  felt  to  be  East  again,  after  six  nights  in  a  sleep- 
ing-car. 


204  THE  BRUTE 

"  Yes,"  he  rattled  on,  in  his  breezy  way,  "  I've 
come  all  the  way  from  'Frisco.  We're  building  some 
docks  there.  Ever  been  in  'Frisco,  Mrs.  Rogers?" 

"  No,"  replied  Edith,  "  though  I've  always  wanted 
to  go." 

"  Great  place.  Nothing  like  it  this  side  of  the 
Rockies.  Wide-open  town,  I  can  tell  you." 

"Do  you  like  that  kind  of  a  town,  Mr.  Hall?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Pope  grimly. 

"Do  I?  Well,  rather.  Chinatown's  got  any- 
thing I  ever  saw  wiped  right  off  the  map.  Great !  " 

"  Indeed? "  The  amount  of  reproof  that  Mrs. 
Pope  could  put  into  that  single  word  exceeds  be- 
lief. "  I  should  hardly  suppose  any  respectable 
person  would  want  to  visit  such  places." 

"  I'm  afraid  I'm  not  respectable,  Mrs.  Pope.  I'm 
only  honest,"  laughed  Hall,  as  he  turned  to  Edith. 
"  I  looked  for  your  husband  on  the  train,  Mrs. 
Rogers.  Hoped  I  might  be  lucky  enough  to  run 
across  him." 

"  He  came  earlier.  He's  dressing  now.  I'm  ex- 
pecting him  down  at  any  moment." 

"Dressing!"  ejaculated  Mr.  Hall,  with  a  wry 
face.  "  Whew !  I'm  afraid  I'll  disgrace  the  party. 


THE  BRUTE  205 

I  didn't  bring  my  evening  togs.  Somehow,  I'd  got 
the  idea  from  your  sister  that  you  were  roughing  it 
down  here.  She  wrote  me  you  had  taken  a  cot- 
tage — "  He  looked  about  the  stately  hall  with 
a  broad  smile.  "  Some  cottage !  "  he  observed. 

"  Don't  bother  about  not  dressing,  Mr.  Hall. 
Mr.  Rogers  generally  wears  flannels,  hot  nights  like 
this.  Shall  I  show  you  to  your  room?  " 

"  Let  me  do  so,  Edith,"  said  Mrs.  Pope,  puffing 
forward  importantly.  "  And,  really,  I'm  going  up, 
anyway." 

She  swept  up  the  staircase,  with  their  guest  meekly 
following  in  her  rear. 

"  Dinner  at  seven,"  called  Alice,  after  them. 

"Well,  Edith,  how  do  you  like  him?"  she  asked, 
when  they  were  alone. 

"  He's  awfully  breezy,  isn't  he?  I  imagine  he's 
very  sincere  and  straightforward." 

"  Emerson's  as  straight  as  they  make  them.  No 
foolishness  about  him.  We're  engaged  —  almost, 
that  is.  Don't  let  on  to  mother." 

"  Engaged !  Not  really !  When  did  he  ask 
you?  " 

"  Coming  up  from  the  station." 


206  THE  BRUTE 

"  He  certainly  didn't  lose  any  time,"  observed 
Edith,  laughing.  "  Did  you  accept  him  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  Now  he'll  have  to  do  it  all  over 
again.  To-night,  perhaps,  down  on  the  rocks.  I 
shouldn't  think  of  accepting  a  man  in  an  automobile. 
It  isn't  romantic  enough." 

"  Didn't  he  feel  discouraged  ?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  You  couldn't  discourage  Emerson 
with  a  pile-driver.  Anyway  —  I  guess  he  under- 
stood." She  smiled  quietly  to  herself. 

"  I  thought,"  Edith  said,  somewhat  nervously, 
"  that  he  seemed  rather  surprised  at  the  way  we  are 
living  here.  I  suppose  he  wonders  where  all  the 
money  is  coming  from." 

"  I  suppose  so.  He  did  seem  a  bit  overcome,  when 
he  saw  the  auto.  Asked  me  if  Donald  had  struck  a 
gold  mine." 

"  A  gold  mine !  Alice !  He  doesn't  Icnow  any- 
thing about  the  —  will,  does  he?"  Mrs.  Rogers 
seemed  troubled,  her  face  had  lost  its  animation,  her 
eyes  took  on  a  hunted  look. 

"I  don't  think  so,"  replied  her  sister,  "but  why 
shouldn't  he?" 

"  I'd  rather  he  didn't.     It  might  look  —  well,  sort 


THE  BRUTE  207 

of  queer  —  and  then,  Donald  might  not  want  him 
to  think  —  " 

"  To  think  what  ?  "  interrupted  Alice  sharply. 

"  Oh,  nothing !  I  suppose  he'll  have  to  know,  some 
time.  Only  it  seems,  somehow,  to  make  Donald  look 
sort  of  cheap  —  don't  you  see?  " 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  Alice  bluntly.  "There  is 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  —  at  least,  nothing  that 
anybody  knows  anything  about.  You  seem  to  be 
getting  awfully  considerate  of  Donald  lately." 

"  Perhaps  I'm  only  just  beginning  to  find  out  what 
a  splendid  fellow  he  is." 

"  Well,  if  you  are,  I'm  glad  of  it,  but  I  shouldn't 
get  up  any  more  excitement  about  this  money  if  I 
were  you.  It  will  look  suspicious." 

"  Did  Mr.  Hall  ever  write  you  anything  more 
about  —  about  Mr.  West  after  that  telegram  we  sent 
him?  " 

"  No,  never.  You  remember  the  answer  he  sent 
the  next  day,  telling  us  poor  Billy  was  dead.  He's 
never  mentioned  the  matter  since.  You  know  he 
left  Denver  shortly  after  that." 

"  Yes,  I  remember.  I  wonder  if  he  could  know 
anything." 


208  THE  BRUTE 

Alice  looked  disgusted.  "  Don't  be  absurd, 
Edith,"  she  said.  "  How  could  he  ?  How  could 
anybody?  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  get  yourself  all 
worked  up  about  nothing.  I'm  the  only  person  in 
the  world,  outside  of  yourself,  that  knows  anything 
about  your  affair  with  Billy  West,  and  I  certainly 
am  not  going  to  say  anything.  I  wouldn't  have 
Emerson  know  for  the  world.  He  might  change  his 
mind  about  me." 

"  Alice !  "  exclaimed  her  sister.  "  That's  an  awful 
thing  to  say." 

"  Well,  it's  true,  isn't  it?  I  don't  mind  his  know- 
ing that  Billy  left  you  the  money.  I  think  he  ought 
to  know  that.  But  when  it  comes  to  his  knowing 
why  he  left  it  —  I  draw  the  line.  Of  course,  he 
couldn't  blame  me,  but  if  he  thought  that  my  sister 
was  living  on  the  money  left  her  by  her  —  well,  I 
don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  Edith,  but  he  might 
not  care  so  much  about  becoming  one  of  the  family." 

Edith  shrank  away  from  her  sister,  her  face  quiver- 
ing. "  You  say  that  to  me  —  you,  who  advised  me 
to  take  it !  " 

"  Don't  try  to  blame  it  on  me,  Edith.  I  advised 
you  to  keep  your  mouth  shut,  and  not  make  things 


THE  BRUTE  209 

any  worse  than  they  were.  I  advise  you  to  do  the 
same  thing  now." 

"  So  that  you  can  go  on  enjoying  the  fruits  of 
my  wrong-doing."  Mrs.  Rogers  looked  at  her  sister 
scornfully  —  defiantly. 

"  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  get  so  melodramatic. 
The  thing's  past.  Why  not  forget  it?  " 

"  Can  you  forget  it  ?  You  are  ashamed  to  let  the 
man  you  love  know  about  it,  for  fear  he  might  not 
want  to  marry  you  —  not  want  to  marry  you,  on 
account  of  me." 

"  You  take  the  thing  too  seriously,  Edith.  You 
never  told  me  much  about  your  affair  with  Billy 
West,  and  I  never  asked  you.  Every  family  has  a 
skeleton  in  its  closet.  Most  of  them  are  lucky  if 
they  haven't  several,  but  they  don't  make  a  practice 
of  parading  them  before  the  public.  What  on  earth 
do  you  want  to  talk  about  this  thing  for?  It  can't 
do  any  good  now." 

"  Because  I'm  sick  of  living  this  lie.  I've  a  great 
mind  to  tell  Donald  everything." 

"You  are  getting  just  plain,  ordinary  dippy, 
Edith.  You  ought  to  take  something  for  it.  Do 
you  know  what  he  would  do  ?  " 


210  THE  BRUTE 

"  He  couldn't  do  anything  that  would  make  mat- 
ters worse  than  they  are." 

"He  couldn't?  You  think  he  couldn't?  Well, 
I'll  tell  you  what  he  would  do.  He'd  make  you  give 
up  every  cent  of  this  money  so  quick  it  would  make 
your  hair  stand  on  end." 

"  Alice !  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  Mrs.  Rogers 
was  horror-struck.  This  phase  of  the  matter  had 
evidently  not  occurred  to  her. 

"  I  should  think  it  was  plain  enough.  He  couldn't 
do  anything  else.  If  you  didn't  do  as  he  wished,  he 
would  leave  you.  He  might  do  it,  anyway.  He 
isn't  the  sort  of  a  man  who  would  stand  for  any 
foolishness,  kind  as  he  is.  You  know  that.  You'd 
lose  either  your  husband  or  your  money.  Then 
where  would  you  be  ?  " 

"  Donald  would  never  do  a  thing  like  that." 

"  Of  course  he  would.  Any  man  would,  who  had 
a  grain  of  self-respect.  Then  you'd  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  giving  up  all  this  "  —  she  waved  her  hand 
about  the  room  —  "  and  going  back  to  that  wretched 
hole  in  Harlem,  and  doing  your  own  cooking,  while 
Bobbie  plays  on  the  sand  pile  on  the  corner  lot,  and 
pretends  he  has  a  pony  cart  with  a  soaj)  box.  You 


THE  BRUTE 

would  enjoy  that,  wouldn't  you?  Oh,  of  course  you 
would !  " 

"Don't!  Don't!"  cried  Edith,  with  a  shudder. 
"  I  could  never  stand  it  —  never !  " 

"  Furthermore,"  pursued  her  sister,  "  Emerson 
would  be  bound  to  know.  He's  seen  this  place,  and 
wouldn't  understand  what  it  all  meant,  if  you  gave 
it  up.  He  probably  would  have  no  further  use  for 
me.  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Edith,  but  you  have  got  us 
all  into  this  situation,  and  you  haven't  any  right  to 
upset  it  —  at  least,  not  now.  Wait  until  Emerson 
and  I  are  married,  at  any  rate." 

Edith  was  on  the  verge  of  tears.  "  I  ought  to 
have  told  him  long  ago,"  she  wailed.  "  In  the  very 
beginning.  Now  it's  too  late.  If  he  knew  the  truth, 
he  might  never  forgive  me." 

"  I  wouldn't  take  any  chances,  if  I  were  you," 
observed  Alice  dryly. 

"  And  Donald  has  been  so  fine,  so  strong,  so  splen- 
did," sobbed  her  sister.  "  I  never  realized  before 
all  that  he  has  been  to  me.  I  can't  tell  you  how  I 
admire  him." 

"  Very  likely.  It's  a  great  deal  easier  for  a 
woman  to  realize  her  husband's  good  points  when 


THE  BRUTE 

she  has  thirty  thousand  dollars  a  year  than  when 
she  hasn't  thirty  cents." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Rogers,  drying 
her  eyes.  "  I  guess  I'll  have  to  make  the  best  of  it." 

"  That's  sensible,  Edith.  Nothing  else  to  do. 
Now  I  think  I'll  go  up  and  dress.  What's  on  for 
this  evening?  " 

"  We  might  go  to  the  hotel  for  an  hour  or  so. 
There's  a  dance.  After  that  you  and  Mr.  Hall  can 
take  a  walk  along  the  beach.  That  will  give  him 
another  chance,"  she  added,  with  a  meaning  smile. 
"  Mother  isn't  at  all  favorable." 

"  I  know  it.  She  thinks  Emerson  hasn't  money 
enough.  She's  right,  too;  he  hasn't.  But  I  guess 
he  will  have,  some  day.  I'm  willing  to  take  a  chance, 
anyway.  You  know,  Edith,  I'm  very  fond  of  mother, 
but  I  don't  intend  to  let  her  interfere  between  Emer- 
son and  myself.  As  a  mother-in-law  I  can  see  her 
weak  points.  I've  never  said  so  before,  but  I  believe 
she  is  responsible  for  nine-tenths  of  the  trouble  be- 
tween Donald  and  yourself." 

"What  trouble?" 

"  Oh,  your  discontent  and  everything.  You  would 
never  have  thought  of  running  away  with  Billy  West 


THE  BRUTE 

if  she  hadn't  sympathized  with  you  all  the  time. 
When  I  get  married  I'm  going  to  live  as  far  away  as 
possible  —  somewhere  where  I  shall  see  mother  about 
once  in  six  months.  I  don't  propose  to  have  her 
making  any  trouble  in  my  domestic  arrangements." 
She  started  toward  the  staircase.  "  I've  barely  time 
to  dress.  Hello,  Donald !  "  she  said,  as  she  met  her 
brother-in-law  descending  the  stairs.  "  How's  every- 
thing? " 


CHAPTER  XV 

DONALD  ROGERS  looked  worried,  although 
he  tried  not  to  show  it.  He  glanced  about 
the  hall  eagerly. 

"  Where's  Bobbie  ?  "  he  inquired. 

"  Having  his  supper,  dear.  He  was  out  driving 
when  you  came.  They  drove  over  to  the  lighthouse 
to  try  his  new  pony.  You  can't  imagine  how  de- 
lighted he  is  with  it.  I'm  trying  to  keep  him  out 
of  doors  as  much  as  possible.  He  looks  like  another 
child  already.  The  sea  air  is  just  what  he  needs." 

"  Great,  isn't  it?  "  Donald  said.  "  I  don't  wonder 
he  feels  better.  You  are  looking  very  charming  your- 
self to-night,  Edith.  You're  gaining  weight." 

"  I've  gained  eight  pounds  since  we've  been  here. 
I  shouldn't  have  believed  it  possible,  but  I  weighed 
myself  the  day  we  came  just  to  see.  I  wish  you 
would  take  a  few  weeks  off,  and  have  a  good  rest  — 
you  don't  look  yourself.  What's  the  matter?  Busi- 
ness ?  " 

'*  Yes.     Things  aren't  going  very  well." 
214 


THE  BRUTE  215 

She  came  up  to  him,  and  put  her  hand  affection- 
ately upon  his  arm. 

"After  all,  Don,"  she  said,  looking  at  him  fondly, 
"  it  doesn't  make  so  much  difference  —  now." 

"  Just  as  much  as  ever,  dear,"  he  said,  taking  her 
hand.  "  You  know  how  I  feel  about  this  money. 
I'm  glad,  for  your  sake,  and  Bobbie's,  but  it  isn't 
mine,  and  I  can't  forget  it." 

"  Everything  I  have  is  yours,  dear  —  everything ! 
You  know  that." 

"  Thank  you,  Edith.  I  appreciate  it  even  if  1 
can't  take  advantage  of  it.  I  want  to  succeed  on  my 
own  account  —  I  can't  stop  work  just  because  my 
wife  happens  to  be  a  rich  woman.  You  wouldn't  re- 
spect me  if  I  did  that.  I'll  win  out,  all  right.  You 
believe  that,  don't  you?  "  He  looked  at  her  eagerly. 

"  Of  course  I  do,"  she  replied,  patting  his  hand. 
"  I  know  you  will.  I  only  wish  you  would  let  me 
make  it  easier  for  you.  It  spoils  all  my  happiness, 
not  t-o  be  able  to  do  so." 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  could  do,  Edith,  more  than 
you  are  doing." 

"  How  is  business,  Donald?  " 

He  began  to  walk  gloomily  up  and  down.     "  The 


216  THE  BRUTE 

work  at  the  office  is  all  right,"  he  said  presently. 
"  It's  that  confounded  glass  plant  that  worries  me. 
We  haven't  enough  working  capital,  and  can't  seem 
to  borrow  any.  The  worst  of  it  is,  there's  a  payment 
due  on  the  property  September  first,  five  thousand 
dollars.  You  know  the  condition  of  the  money- 
market,  I  suppose.  The  papers  are  full  of  it." 

"  You  mean  about  the  stock-market  ? "  asked 
Edith  timidly. 

Donald  threw  himself  into  a  chair.  "  Yes,"  he 
replied,  "  that  and  the  Western  Securities  decision, 
and  the  failure  of  the  Columbian  Trust  Company. 
Things  look  pretty  bad.  The  banks  are  afraid  to 
lend  a  dollar  without  gilt-edged  security.  Just  my 
luck!  Any  other  year  things  would  have  been  dif- 
ferent. You  remember  I  was  afraid  of  this,  in  the 
spring.  I  spoke  to  Billy  West  about  it." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I  lend  you  the  money  ?  "  said 
Edith,  coming  over  and  standing  by  his  chair. 

"  I  couldn't  let  you  do  that,  dear,"  he  replied, 
looking  up  at  her. 

"But  why?  You  know  I  have  over  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars  lying  idle  in  the  bank  —  interest,  not 
principal.  You  must  let  me  lend  it  to  you.  How 


THE  BRUTE  217 

much  do  you  want  ?  "  She  went  over  to  a  desk  in 
the  corner  and  drew  a  check-book  from  one  of  the 
drawers.  "  Please,  Donald.  It  will  be  such  a  pleas- 
ure to  me."  She  looked  at  him  in  eager  expectancy. 

"  I  can't  accept  it,  Edith.  I  want  to  stand  on 
my  own  feet.  Now  that  you  have  all  this  money, 
I'm  doubly  anxious  to  do  it.  I  don't  want  to  be  just 
Mrs.  Rogers'  husband." 

"  You  could  never  be  that,  dear.  I  want  you  to 
do  all  you  say  —  can't  you  see  that's  one  reason  I'm 
so  anxious  to  help  you?  We  will  make  it  a  business 
transaction  —  you  can  give  me  a  mortgage,  or  what- 
ever you  call  it,  just  as  if  you  were  borrowing  from 
some  hard-fisted  old  miser.  I  have  a  perfect  right 
to  invest  my  money  in  a  glass  factory,  if  I  please. 
You  wouldn't  owe  me  anything."  She  paused,  smil- 
ing. 

"  You  are  a  great  financier,  Edith,"  laughed  her 
husband.  "  You  have  discovered  the  art  of  borrow- 
ing money  without  owing  it." 

"  Don't  laugh  at  me,  Donald,"  she  protested. 
"  I'm  in  earnest.  I  want  you  to  take  it  —  just  to 
oblige  me.  You  will  —  won't  you,  dear?" 

"  Would  you  think  just  as  much  of  me?  "  he  asked, 


218  THE  BRUTE 

evidently  revolving  the  matter  carefully  in  his  mind. 

"  How  can  you  ask  me  such  a  question  ?  It  would 
be  a  mighty  poor  sort  of  a  world,  if  we  couldn't  help 
one  another  over  a  hard  place,  once  in  a  while." 

Donald  rose  from  his  seat,  and  went  over  toward 
his  wife.  "  I  didn't  intend  to  speak  of  this.  Edith," 
he  said,  "  but  now  that  I  have  —  perhaps  poor  Billy 
would  be  glad,  if  he  knew.  I'll  take  it  —  but  as  a 
loan  only,  mind  you,  and  with  proper  security." 

At  this  reference  to  West,  Edith  shivered  slightly 
and  turned  away  to  hide  her  feelings.  "  How  much 
do  you  need  ?  "  she  asked  in  a  strained  voice.  "  Fif- 
teen thousand?  " 

"  Oh,  no.  Ten  will  be  ample.  But  it  isn't  neces- 
sary to  bother  about  it  now.  Wait  until  I  go  back 
to  town." 

"  No,  Don.  You  might  change  your  mind.  You'd 
best  take  it  now."  She  hurriedly  began  to  write  out 
a  check.  "  You  can  send  the  mortgage,  or  note,  or 
whatever  it  is,  down  to  me  —  that  is,  if  you  really 
want  to  do  it  that  way." 

"  I  certainly  shouldn't  think  of  doing  it  any  other," 
said  Donald. 

Edith  rose,  and,  going  up  to  her  husband,  put  the 


THE  BRUTE  219 

check  in  his  hand.  "  Here,  Donald,"  she  said.  "  I 
hope  this  will  fix  everything  all  right.  If  it  does, 
it  will  make  me  very  happy." 

"  Thank  you,  Edith,"  he  remarked  simply,  putting 
the  check  in  his  pocket.  "  I  shall  never  forget  this, 
—  never.  You  have  been  very  good  to  me.  I  only 
hope  I  shall  not  have  to  keep  it  long." 

"  Don't  thank  me,  Donald.  Just  consider  it  a 
little  loan  from  a  dear  friend."  He  put  his  arm 
about  her,  and  drew  her  to  him.  "  God  bless  you, 
dear,  you  and  poor  old  Billy.  How  I  wish  he  were 
here  to  enjoy  it  all."  He  kissed  her  lovingly,  then 
started  in  surprise.  "  Why,  Edith,  you  are  crying," 
he  exclaimed.  "  What's  the  matter,  dear  ?  There's 
nothing  wrong,  is  there  ?  "  He  smoothed  back  the 
hair  from  her  forehead  tenderly. 

"  Nothing,"  she  cried,  as  she  escaped  from  his 
embrace,  and,  going  over  to  the  desk,  put  the  check- 
book back  into  the  drawer,  which  she  locked. 

As  she  did  so,  they  both  turned  at  the  sound  of 
someone  descending  the  stairs.  It  was  Hall. 

"  Hello,  Hall !  Glad  to  see  you."  Donald  went 
up  to  their  guest  with  outstretched  hand. 

"  Rogers !  "  exclaimed  the  latter,  shaking  Donald's 


220  THE  BRUTE 

hand  vigorously.  "  You  look  just  the  same  as  you 
did  back  in  ninety-five.  How  are  you  ?  " 

"  Pretty  well.     How  are  things  in  the  West?  " 

"  Oh,  about  as  usual  —  too  much  politics,  and  not 
enough  rain." 

Donald  laughed. 

"  Sit  down,  Mr.  Hall,"  said  Edith.  "  I  must  go 
and  see  to  dinner.  I'll  be  back  presently."  She 
started  toward  the  door. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  making  any  extra  prepara- 
tion on  my  account,"  Hall  exclaimed. 

"  Oh  —  no  —  nothing  unusual,"  Edith  laughed. 
"  We  are  going  to  treat  you  as  one  of  the  family." 

"  That  will  make  a  hit  with  me,  Mrs.  Rogers," 
said  Hall,  joining  in  her  laugh. 

"  I  thought  it  would,"  she  cried,  as  she  left  the 
room. 

"How  would  a  high-ball  strike  you,  eh?"  asked 
Donald. 

"  Right  where  I  live." 

Donald  led  the  way  to  the  veranda.  "  Suppose  we 
sit  out  here.  It's  a  bit  cooler,  I  think.  There's 
some  whiskey  on  the  table." 

"  All  the   comforts    of  home,   I  see.     Nice  place 


THE  BRUTE  221 

you've  got  here,  Rogers."  He  seated  himself  com- 
fortably in  a  wicker  lounging  chair. 

"  Yes,  very."  Donald's  voice  had  a  peculiar 
note  —  he  felt  the  irony  of  the  situation.  "  Shall 
I  pour  you  out  a  drink?  "  he  asked,  going  to  the 
table. 

"Thanks,  old  man.  Here's  to  you!"  Hall 
raised  his  glass.  "  Nothing  like  the  seashore,  after 
all,  in  the  summer  for  health  and  happiness.  How's 
your  little  boy?  " 

"  Great.  Growing  like  a  weed."  Donald  took  a 
chair  opposite  his  guest  and  drew  a  cigar-case  from 
his  pocket.  "  Have  a  cigar?  " 

"  No,  thanks ;  not  before  dinner.  I'll  light  a 
cigarette,  though,  if  you  don't  mind."  He  took  out 
a  box  of  cigarettes  and  offered  it  to  his  host. 
"Have  one?" 

"  Thanks."  Donald  put  his  cigar-case  back  into 
his  pocket,  and  took  a  cigarette.  "  I  understand," 
he  said,  "  that  you  are  with  the  Pioneer  Construction 
Company  of  Chicago." 

"  Yes.  I've  been  with  them  for  several  years. 
Made  me  chief  engineer  last  year." 

"Good    work!     Ought    to    be    a    splendid    job. 


222  THE  BRUTE 

Keeps  you  moving  about  a  good  deal,  though,  doesn't 
it?" 

"  Yes.  More  than  I  like.  I've  pretty  well  cov- 
ered the  West,  this  past  year.  Meet  a  lot  of  Colum- 
bia men,  off  and  on.  I  like  'Frisco.  Wonderful 
place.  Dennett,  ninety-six,  is  in  business  there. 
You  knew  him,  didn't  you?  " 

"  Slightly.     He  was  in  the  class  below  me." 
"  And  Walker,  ninety-five.     Remember  him  ?  " 
"Tall  fellow?     Wears   glasses?     Yes,  I   remem- 
ber him.     Very  bright  man.     How  long  did  you  stay 
in  'Frisco?" 

"  Two  months.  Finished  up  a  j  ob  in  Denver  be- 
fore that." 

"  Denver  ?  That's  where  poor  Billy  West  died. 
He  was  a  ninety-five  man.  You  knew  him,  didn't 
you?  " 

"  Slightly.     Great  friend  of  yours,  wasn't  he?  " 
"Yes,  I  thought  everything  of  him.     His  death 
was  a  terrible  shock." 

"  So  sudden,  too.  He  was  ill  only  a  few  days. 
Appendicitis,  they  told  me." 

"  Yes.     He  died  right  after  the  operation." 

"  I  was  in  Denver  at  the  time ;  but  I  didn't  think 


THE  BRUTE  223 

to  look  him  up.  Didn't  even  know  he  was  sick  until 
I  got  your  telegram." 

"  My  telegram?  "  Donald  looked  at  his  guest  in 
sudden  surprise. 

"Well,  perhaps  not  yours,  exactly.  Miss  Pope 
wired  me  that  he  was  sick,  and  asked  me  to  find  out 
how  he  was.  I  supposed  it  was  on  your  account." 

"Miss  Pope?" 

"  Yes.     Your  sister-in-law." 

Donald's  surprise  and  confusion  were  painfully 
evident.  "I  —  I  —  don't  understand  why  she  should 
have  wired.  I  didn't  even  know  he  was  sick,  myself." 

"  She  must  have  known  it,"  replied  Hall,  a  trifle 
uneasily.  "  I  went  to  the  hospital  at  once.  They 
told  me  he  had  been  dead  several  days." 

"  Strange,"  muttered  Donald.  "  I  can't  see  why 
she  should  have  wired." 

"  Perhaps  Mrs.  Rogers  asked  her  to  do  so.  She 
didn't  know  me,  herself,  you  know." 

"  You  went  to  the  hospital,  you  say  ?  " 

"  Yes.  He  had  been  buried  by  that  time,  poor 
chap.  I  had  a  talk  with  the  nurse  who  attended 
him." 

"Did  he  suffer  much?" 


THE  BRUTE 

"  No,  not  physically,  that  is.  They  told  me  he 
worried  terribly  over  his  illness.  Died  raving  about 
some  woman." 

"  Some  woman?     That's  strange." 
"  Why  so?     Most  men  do,  don't  they?  " 
"  West    didn't.     He    never    cared    much    about 
women." 

"  He  must  have,  from  what  I  heard." 
"  Why    so  ? "     Donald    shifted    uneasily    in    his 
chair. 

"  It's  a  queer  story.  I  suppose  the  nurse  ought 
not  to  have  told  me,  but  she  must  have  thought  I 
was  a  very  dear  friend  of  his.  It  seems  he  was  terri- 
bly in  love  with  some  married  woman  here  in  New 
York  —  wrote  to  her  every  day,  almost  —  up  to  the 
last.  I  understand  she  did  to  him,  too." 

"  A  married  woman  ?  "  cried  Donald,  in  astonish- 
ment. "  I  don't  believe  it.  I  knew  Billy  West  inti- 
mately. He  had  scarcely  any  woman  friends.  It's 
hardly  likely  he  could  have  been  carrying  on  such 
an  affair  without  my  knowing  it.  I  saw  him  every 
day,  almost." 

Hall  took  out  his  cigarette-case  and  lighted  a  fresh 
cigarette.  "  I  don't  know,"  he  replied.  "  That's 


THE  BRUTE  225 

what  the  nurse  said.  She  used  to  read  him  her  let- 
ters. They  had  arranged  that  she  was  to  leave  her 
husband,  and  she  and  West  were  going  to  run  away 
together  —  to  Europe.  He'd  gone  out  to  Denver 
to  close  up  his  affairs,  and  turn  all  his  property 
into  money.  They  had  everything  arranged  to  go 
as  soon  as  he  returned  to  New  York.  That's  what 
made  it  so  hard  for  him  to  die." 

Donald  gazed  at  the  face  of  the  man  opposite 
him  with  horrified  intentness.  "  Who  was  she  ? " 
he  asked  suddenly. 

"  I  haven't  the  least  idea.  I  didn't  ask  the  nurse, 
and  she  probably  didn't  know.  It  was  the  strange 
outcome  of  the  affair  that  interested  me  particu- 
larly. I  wonder  if  you  heard  it." 

Donald  looked  puzzled.  "  I  don't  know  what  you 
mean,"  he  said  slowly. 

"  Well,  it  was  like  this :  West,  I  understand,  was 
worth  a  lot  of  money."  Hall  leaned  forward  in  his 
chair,  and  addressed  his  host  impressively.  "  The 
day  before  he  died,"  he  said  slowly,  "  he  called  in 
a  lawyer,  and  made  a  will,  leaving  every  cent  he  had 
in  the  world  to  the  woman  he  was  in  love  with." 

Donald  Rogers  allowed  his  half-smoked  cigarette 


226  THE  BRUTE 

to  drop  unheeded  to  the  floor.  He  started  forward 
in  his  chair,  his  face  flushed,  his  whole  appearance 
that  of  a  man  who  had  suffered  a  sudden  and  terri- 
ble shock.  "  It's  a  lie ! "  he  gasped  hoarsely,  then 
sank  back  in  horror. 

A  look  of  amazement  spread  over  Hall's  face. 
"  Pardon  me,  old  man,"  he  said  slowly.  "  I  didn't 
suppose  you'd  feel  so  strongly  about  the  matter,  or 
I  should  never  have  mentioned  it.  I  only  know  what 
the  nurse  told  me." 

Donald  recovered  himself  with  an  effort.  He 
tried  to  stem  the  tumult  that  surged  through  his 
brain.  "  Excuse  me,  Hall,"  he  said  weakly.  "  It 
—  it  was  a  great  shock."  Then  he  began  nervously 
to  light  another  cigarette. 

Hall  looked  at  him  in  astonishment.  "  Yes,"  he 
said  vaguely.  "  It  surprised  me  a  good  deal,  too. 
I  guess  it's  true,  though.  The  nurse  would  have 
had  no  reason  to  lie  about  it.  I've  often  wondered 
what  sort  of  a  man  this  woman's  husband  must  have 
been,  to  let  her  take  the  money  —  if  he  did.  Pretty 
cheap  skate,  to  stand  for  a  thing  like  that  —  don't 
you  think?" 

"  If  he  did,"  repeated  Donald  mechanically,  and, 


THE  BRUTE  227 

fumbling  in  his  pocket,  drew  forth  the  check  which 
his  wife  had  given  him  a  short  time  before. 

"  Thought  you  might  have  heard  about  it,"  con- 
tinued Hall,  as  he  finished  his  drink. 

"  No."  Donald's  voice  was  strained  —  he  was 
vaguely  groping  in  his  mind  for  some  solid  ground 
in  the  chaos  that  surrounded  him.  "  I  should  have 
known,  but  I  did  not,"  he  continued;  then  began 
slowly  to  tear  the  check  into  bits. 

"Women  are  the  devil,  aren't  they?"  said  Hall, 
as  he  rose  and  began  to  walk  about  the  spacious 
veranda.  "  Perhaps  her  husband  never  even  knew." 

Donald  rose,  and,  going  to  the  railing,  dropped 
the  pieces  of  the  check  in  a  shower  upon  the  rose 
bushes  beneath.  "  He  never  knew,"  he  repeated  me- 
chanically. 

As  he  spoke,  Edith  appeared  in  the  doorway. 
"  Dinner  is  almost  ready,"  she  announced  gaily. 
"  Haven't  the  others  come  down  yet  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

DONALD  ROGERS  had  given  eight  years  of 
his  life  to  working  for  the  welfare  of  his  wife 
and  his  little  boy.  He  was  a  man  of  one  idea,  and 
to  that  he  bent  his  every  effort.  It  may  be  that, 
in  his  devotion  to  the  future,  he  had  neglected  the 
present,  but  the  thought  that  Edith,  the  woman 
whom  he  had  trusted  and  believed  in  all  these  years, 
could  be  unfaithful  to  him  had  never  crossed  his 
mind.  The  very  idea  seemed  monstrous  —  as  he 
looked  up  and  saw  her  sweet,  familiar  smile,  he  felt 
that  he  must  be  the  victim  of  some  weird  and  horri- 
ble mistake. 

Edith,  her  face  flushed  and  happy,  beamed  upon 
them  from  the  open  doorway.  Hall  was  the  first  to 
speak. 

"  Not  yet,  Mrs.  Rogers,"  he  said,  then  looked 
curiously  at  Donald,  as  he  noted  the  latter's  silence. 

"  I  suppose  you  two  have  been  having  a  nice,  long 
talk  about  your  college  days?  "  said  Edith,  glancing 

from  Hall  to  her  husband. 

293 


THE  BRUTE  229 

"  Yes,  in  a  way.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Mrs. 
Rogers,  we  were  talking  about  poor  old  Billy  West." 
He  turned  to  Donald  as  he  spoke,  and  failed  to 
observe  the  look  of  horror  that  crossed  Edith's  face. 

"  Billy  West?  "  she  cried,  with  a  gasp,  as  she 
started  back,  her  eyes  big  with  fear. 

"  Yes.  You  remember  I  went  to  see  him  in  Den- 
ver that  time  —  after  your  sister  wired  me  —  but 
I  was  too  late." 

Donald  interrupted  him.  His  voice  sounded 
harsh  and  unreal.  "  Tell  Mrs.  Rogers  what  you 
have  just  told  me,"  he  said. 

Hall  looked  from  one  to  the  other  in  surprise. 
He  had  evidently  been  treading  on  strange  ground 
—  he  was  unable  to  see  his  way  clearly.  "  Why  — 
I  —  well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Mrs.  Rogers,  I  was 
gossiping  a  bit  —  something  I  don't  often  do.  I 
heard  a  curious  story  about  West  while  I  was  out 
in  Denver,  and  I  was  just  telling  your  husband 
about  it." 

"  Go  on !  "  cried  Donald  hoarsely. 

"  It  wasn't  anything,"  said  Hall  nervously. 
"  Perhaps  I  shouldn't  have  mentioned  it  at  all. 
They  told  me  at  the  hospital  that  he  had  left  his 


230  THE  BRUTE 

entire  fortune  to  some  married  woman  in  New  York 
with  whom  he  was  madly  in  love." 

Edith  groped  blindly  forward.  Her  whole  world 
had  come  clattering  down  in  ruin  about  her  head. 
She  grasped  the  back  of  a  chair  with  both  hands, 
and  tried  to  recover  her  self-control.  "  Yes,"  she 
gasped.  "  I  — I  know." 

Hall  saw  her  agitation,  but  did  not  in  any  way 
understand  its  cause.  "  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Rogers ; 
I'm  sorry,"  he  faltered,  then  turned  to  Donald.  "  I 
say,  old  man,"  he  said,  "  won't  you  please  take  me 
out  and  kick  me  gently  around  the  block?  I  feel 
that  I  am  making  all  kinds  of  an  ass  of  myself  — 
gossiping  here  like  an  old  woman." 

Donald  stepped  suddenly  forward.  "  Mr.  West's 
death  was  a  great  shock  to  us  both,  Mr.  Hall.  Mrs. 
Rogers  has  never  got  over  it.  You  can  understand, 
of  course." 

He  came  to  her  rescue  almost  unconsciously,  pro- 
tecting her  from  the  breakdown  which  now  seemed 
inevitable.  She  stood  clutching  the  back  of  the 
chair,  her  face  twitching  with  emotion,  afraid  to 
look  at  her  husband,  afraid  to  look  at  Hall,  her  eyes 
upon  the  distant  blue  of  the  Sound.  The  blow  had 


THE  BRUTE 

fallen  — •  she  knew  that  tragedy  stood  at  her  side, 
ready  to  strike  her  down.  The  tenseness  of  the  situ- 
ation was  momentarily  relieved  by  the  appearance  of 
Mrs.  Pope  and  Alice. 

"Are  we  late,  dear?"  asked  her  mother,  puffing 
heavily  out  on  the  veranda. 

Edith  did  not  answer ;  she  scarcely  seemed  to  hear. 
Alice  went  up  to  Hall  with  a  smile. 

"  I  dressed  in  fifteen  minutes,"  she  announced 
gaily.  "  What  have  you  been  doing  with  your- 
self?" 

"  Making  an  ass  of  myself,  as  usual,"  he  mut- 
tered; then  looked  toward  Mrs.  Rogers. 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  Alice  inquired  as  she  fol- 
lowed his  glance.  *'  What's  the  matter,  Sis  ?  "  she 
asked,  going  up  to  Edith,  and  putting  a  hand  on 
her  arm. 

The  other  tried  to  smile.  "  Nothing,  dear ;  noth- 
ing," she  said,  her  voice  sounding  far  off.  "  Mr. 
Hall  said  something  he  thought  made  me  feel  bad, 
but  it  wasn't  anything  —  not  anything  at  all." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Man,  by  saying  mean 
things  to  my  little  sister?  "  demanded  Alice  play- 
fully, shaking  her  finger  at  Hall. 


THE  BRUTE 

His  reply  was  interrupted'  by  Mrs.  Pope.  "  How 
long  before  dinner,  Edith? "  she  inquired.  "  It's 
almost  seven  now." 

"  It  will  be  a  little  late,  mother.  Perhaps  ten 
minutes  yet,"  Edith  managed  to  say.  She  glanced 
timidly  at  her  husband,  but  his  stern,  impassive  face 
contained  no  message  that  she  could  read. 

"  Then  I  needn't  have  hurried,  after  all,"  ex- 
claimed Alice,  in  an  aggrieved  tone.  "  How  would 
you  like  to  take  a  look  at  the  grounds  before  dinner, 
Emerson?  " 

"  There's  hardly  time,  my  dear."  Mrs.  Pope's 
manner  was  severely  disapproving. 

"  Oh,  yes,  there  is."  She  took  Hall  by  the  arm, 
and  moved  toward  the  steps.  "  Come  along,  Emer- 
son." 

"  I  will  accompany  you,  Alice,"  said  her  mother, 
hastily  joining  them.  She  evidently  intended  to 
keep  Alice  and  the  despised  possessor  of  only  four 
thousand  a  year  under  her  watchful  eye. 

"  Won't  you  and  Donald  come  too  ?  "  asked  Alice 
sarcastically  as  she  left  the  porch. 

Donald  regarded  her  without  interest.  He 
scarcely  heard  what  she  said.  "  No,  we  will  wait 


THE  BRUTE 

here,"  he  replied;  then  looked  searchingly  at  his 
wife. 

"  Call  us  when  dinner  is  ready,"  Alice  flung  back 
at  them  over  her  shoulder,  as  she  and  Mr.  Hall  dis- 
appeared around  the  corner  of  the  veranda,  Mrs. 
Pope  puffing  along  in  their  wake,  like  a  fussy  little 
tugboat  under  full  steam. 

Edith  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence.  "  Don- 
ald !  "  she  faltered,  her  voice  breaking  pitifully ;  then 
took  a  step  toward  him. 

"  Is  this  story  true  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"Wait,  Donald  —  wait !"  she  cried.  "Don't 
judge  me  harshly." 

"  Is  this  story  true  ?  "  he  repeated,  his  face  drawn 
with  anger. 

She  continued  to  approach  him,  her  arms  held 
out  in  piteous  appeal.  "  Donald  —  what  do  you 
want  me  to  say?  " 

Donald's  expression  turned  to  one  of  bitter  an- 
guish. The  denial  he  had  half-hoped  for,  in  spite 
of  Hall's  story,  was  not  forthcoming.  In  every 
word,  in  every  gesture,  his  wife  showed  her  guilt. 

"  My  God,  I  can't  believe  it ! "  he  groaned. 
"  Why  did  you  do  this  thing?  " 


THE  BRUTE 

"  Don't  ask  me  any  more  —  don't !  Can't  you 
see  it's  all  past  and  gone?  " 

"No!  It  has  only  just  begun.  Were  you  in 
love  with  him  ?  Don't  lie  to  me !  " 

"  Donald  —  I  —  I  — really  wasn't.  I  — "  Her 
voice  choked  with  sobs;  she  was  unable  to  meet  his 
searching  gaze. 

"  I  don't  believe  you." 

She  came  near  to  him,  her  look,  her  manner,  her 
every  movement  an  appeal  for  forgiveness.  "  Don- 
ald !  "  she  cried.  "I  —  I  —  only  thought  I  was. 
It  wasn't  true.  I  never  loved  anyone  but  you  — 
don't  you  see  that  I  am  telling  you  the  truth?  " 

"  You've  got  to  tell  me  the  truth."  His  voice  was 
stern  —  implacable.  "  Did  West  ask  you  to  leave 
me,  and  go  away  with  him?  " 

"  Donald  —  dear  —  don't !  "  she  cried  wildly. 
"  Let  me  explain  1 " 

"  Answer  me !  "  he  demanded  angrily. 

"  Yes."  The  word  was  scarcely  audible  through 
her  sobs. 

Donald  passed  his  hand  unsteadily  across  his  eyes 
and  turned  away.  It  seemed  unbelievable.  West 
—  his  bosom  friend  —  the  man  he  would  have  trusted 


THE  BRUTE  235 

with  his  life.  "  The  scoundrel !  And  I  trusted  him 
so ! "  he  groaned,  then  looked  again  at  his  wife. 
"  Did  you  agree  to  go  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  I  did  not  know  what  I  was  doing  —  I  was  mad. 
Oh,  Donald  —  forgive  me  —  forgive  me !  "  She  put 
her  hand  on  his  arm,  the  tears  streaming  down  her 
face. 

"  Did  you  agree  to  go  ?  "  His  voice  was  even 
harder  and  more  peremptory. 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered,  "  I  did." 

The  bitterness  of  it  all  almost  overcame  him.  He 
loved  her  very  deeply.  "  How  could  you  ? "  he 
moaned.  "  How  could  you?  " 

She  saw  his  momentary  weakness,  and,  woman-like, 
took  quick  advantage  of  it.  "  Donald,"  she  cried, 
through  her  tears,  "  Donald !  Forgive  me !  I 
agreed  in  a  moment  of  madness.  I  have  tried  so 
hard,  all  these  months,  to  be  worthy  of  you  —  of 
your  love.  Can't  you  believe  me?  " 

"  You  would  have  gone,"  he  said  bitterly.  "  You 
would  have  gone !  " 

"Donald!     I  —  " 

"  Don't  deny  it.  I  know  it  is  true.  What  did 
he  go  to  Denver  for?  " 


236  THE  BRUTE 

"  To  sell  his  property  —  to  — 

"  To  sell  it  out,  so  that  he  would  be  free  to  go 
away  with  you,"  he  interrupted  hotly.  "  He  died 
raving  over  your  daily  letters,  and  left  you  every 
cent  he  had  in  the  world.  Does  that  look  as  though 
you  had  changed  your  mind  ?  "  He  turned  from  her 
with  an  expression  of  disgust.  "  What  a  fool  you 
have  made  of  me ! "  he  cried. 

"  Donald !     Listen  to  me.     You  must !  " 

"  No !  I'll  do  the  talking  now.  Did  you  know  he 
had  made  his  will  in  your  favor?  " 

«No!" 

"  Why  did  you  wire  to  find  out  how  he  was  ?  " 

"  Because  he  was  sick,  and  I  was  worried  about 
him.  I  hadn't  heard  a  word  from  him  for  three 
days.  I  knew  nothing  about  the  money  until  that 
awful  night  when  the  lawyer  came." 

"  And  you  took  it !  In  spite  of  all  —  you  took  it. 
You  accepted  this  man's  money !  " 

"  Donald  —  I  couldn't  help  it  —  I  was  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"  Afraid  to  refuse  it,  for  fear  you  would  not  un- 
derstand —  for  fear  you  would  suspect  —  and  think 
terrible  things  about  me." 


THE  BRUTE  237 

"  For  fear  I  might  find  out  the  truth,"  he  flung 
at  her  angrily.  "  For  fear  you  would  not  be  able 
to  hoodwink  me,  as  you  had  in  the  past.  For  fear 
I  might  know  how  disloyal  and  unfaithful  and  untrue 
you  had  been  to  me." 

His  words,  and  the  way  he  spoke  them,  roused  in 
her  a  sudden  anger.  "  Yes,  if  you  wish  to  put  it 
that  way,"  she  cried  defiantly.  "  For  fear  you 
would  no  longer  love  me,  when  I  had  come  to  know 
that  your  love  was  the  only  thing  I  wanted  in  all  the 
world." 

"  And  to  keep  my  love,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly, 
"  you  were  willing  to  stoop  to  that  —  to  accept  this 
man's  money." 

"  Oh  —  my  dear  —  my  dear !  I  didn't  want  his 
money  —  I  didn't  want  it!  Won't  you  believe  me?  " 

"  You  took  it." 

"  I  had  to  take  it.  There  wasn't  anything  else  I 
could  do." 

"  You  could  have  given  it  away  —  you  could  have 
come  to  me,  and  told  me  the  truth  —  anything  but 
this." 

"  Could  I  have  done  any  more  good  with  it  by  giv- 
ing it  away  than  I  have  by  keeping  it?  Think  of 


238  THE  BRUTE 

what  I  have  been  able  to  do  for  my  mother  —  my  sis- 
ter —  our  boy.  Don't  you  see  ?  It  wasn't  for  my- 
self I  wanted  the  money.  You  will  believe  that, 
won't  you?  " 

"  No !  You  have  always  wanted  money.  You 
never  lost  an  opportunity  to  tell  me  how  much  I 
failed  to  give  you.  Now  you've  got  it "  —  he 
glanced  bitterly  about  him  — "  at  the  expense  of 
your  honor.  You've  lied  to  me,  and  tricked  me,  and 
made  a  fool  of  me,  and  now  you've  got  it;  and,  to 
crown  it  all,  you  were  even  willing  to  let  me  share 
in  it.  You  gave  me  that  check,  knowing  all  this." 
He  raised  his  hands  in  helpless  fury.  "  My  God ! 
What  a  humiliation !  " 

Edith  looked  at  her  husband  in  a  frightened  way. 
"  If  he  were  alive  to-day  he  would  be  glad  to  know 
that  he  had  helped  you,"  she  said  pathetically,  seek- 
ing some  adequate  answer  to  his  accusations.  Her 
choice  was  an  unfortunate  one  —  it  only  increased 
his  rage. 

"  Stop !  "  he  fairly  shouted.  "  Don't  dare  to  say 
that  to  me !  Do  you  think  I  would  accept  anything 
from  him?  —  this  man  I  loved  and  trusted  and  hon- 
ored as  a  friend  —  this  man  that  crept  into  my  home 


THE  BRUTE  239 

and  tried  to  ruin  me  —  to  take  from  me  everything 
I  held  dear  in  the  world  —  this  liar  —  this  hypocrite 
-  this  crook  —  to  help  me!  God !  You  must  have 
fallen  pretty  low  to  think  that  I  would  accept  help 
from  your  lover!  " 

Edith  cowered  before  his  biting  scorn.  "  Oh ! 
How  can  you  —  how  can  you?  "  she  sobbed.  "  I  did 
not  love  him." 

"  I  would  respect  you  more  if  you  had.  You 
might  have  been  honest  with  him,  at  least,  if  you 
couldn't  be  with  me.  No  —  you  did  not  love  him. 
You  turned  from  me,  and  gave  yourself  to  him  be- 
cause he  had  money!  Money!  Money!  You  — 
you  —  God,  I  can't  say  the  word !  Don't  you  know 
what  they  call  women  who  sell  themselves  for 
money  ?  " 

She  flushed  darkly  at  his  words.  "  Don't  dare  to 
say  that  to  me !  "  she  cried.  "  I  may  have  been  dis- 
loyal —  I  may  have  intended  to  leave  you  —  but  I 
never  wanted  his  money  —  never  —  not  for  myself. 
It  was  for  the  others." 

"  Look  at  yourself,"  he  interrupted.  "  Your 
clothes  —  your  jewels  —  this  place!  Has  all  this 
been  for  others?  Haven't  you  enjoyed  it?  Isn't  it 


240  THE  BRUTE 

the  very  breath  of  existence  to  you?  What  sort  of 
a  woman  are  you,  anyway?  " 

"  You  are  cruel,  brutal !  "  she  cried,  dashing  the 
tears  from  her  eyes.  "  You  have  no  right  to  say 
such  things  to  me.  I  took  this  money  because  I 
couldn't  refuse  it.  If  I  had  given  it  away,  you 
would  have  suspected.  I  had  begun  to  see  what  a 
terrible  mistake  I  had  made  —  I  wanted  to  keep  this 
thing  from  you  —  because  I  loved  you." 

"  Why  didnH  you  tell  me  the  truth  —  then  — 
then  —  not  leave  me  to  find  it  out  now  ?  You  knew 
if  you  told  me  about  this  money,  you  would  have  to 
give  it  up,  and  you  thought  you  could  deceive  me." 

"  No  —  no,  it  isn't  true !  " 

"  It  is  true.  You  thought  you  could  buy  your 
fine  clothes,  your  luxury,  your  happiness  at  the  ex- 
pense of  my  honor  —  and  you  have  done  it.  What 
do  you  suppose  Hall  will  think  of  all  this  when  he 
knows  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Why  need  he  know  anything  about  it  ?  " 

"  Good  God !  Haven't  you  any  sense  of  decency 
—  of  right  ?  Do  you  suppose  for  a  moment  I  am 
going  to  let  things  go  on  like  this  ?  " 

"  Donald !     What    are   you   going   to    do  ?  "    she 


THE  BRUTE 

asked.  "  Remember  what  all  this  means  to  others. 
Forgive  me,  and  let  us  forget." 

"  Don't  say  that  again !  "  He  took  a  step  toward 
her  threateningly.  "  I  don't  want  to  hear  it.  Give 
up  every  cent  of  this  money,  now  —  at  once !  Put 
on  your  cheap  clothes,  your  home-made  hat,  your 
pride  —  if  you  have  any  left.  They  will  look  better 
on  you  than  what  you  are  wearing  now.  Go  back  to 
your  cooking  —  your  housework.  It  will  be  time 
enough  then  to  talk  about  forgiveness." 

She  shrank  from  him,  her  hands  clutching  nerv- 
ously at  her  bosom.  After  all,  even  she  herself  had 
not  realized  how  horrible  the  thought  of  her  old  life 
had  become  to  her,  now  that  she  had  tasted  of  the 
new.  She  shuddered  before  the  sordid  vision.  "  You 
can't  mean  it  —  you  can't !  " 

"  You  dare  say  that?  "  he  demanded;  then  became 
suddenly  silent,  and  looked  toward  the  door. 

Edith  followed  his  glance,  and  saw  Bobbie  stand- 
ing on  the  threshold,  his  nurse  behind  him. 

"  Papa !  "  cried  the  little  fellow,  rushing  up  to  his 
father  with  outstretched  hands.  "  Have  you  seen 
my  new  pony?  " 

Donald  put  out  his  arms,  and  took  the  child  to 


242  THE  BRUTE 

his  heart.  "  Bobbie  —  my  dear  little  boy !  "  he  cried, 
as  he  kissed  him. 

"  Mamma  got  him  for  me  yesterday,"  the  child 
prattled  on.  "  He's  brown,  and  has  a  shaggy  mane, 
and  I  like  him  ever  so  much  better  than  the  old  one, 
I've  named  him  Billikins,  because  he  has  such  a  funny 
face.  Won't  you  come  and  see  him?  "  He  caught 
his  father  by  the  hand,  pulling  him  toward  the  door. 

"  I  can't  come  now,"  said  Donald,  resisting  him. 
"  He's  asleep  by  this  time.  We'll  see  him  to-mor- 
row." 

"  And  we'll  go  in  swimming,  papa.  I've  learned  a 
lot  since  you  were  here  last  week.  I  can  keep  up 
dog-fashion."  He  capered  about,  illustrating  with 
his  arms.  "  Mamma's  going  to  get  me  a  pair  of 
white  wings.  Aren't  you,  mamma?"  He  turned 
to  his  mother  for  confirmation. 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  And,  papa,  I've  got  a  sailboat.  Patrick  is 
showing  me  how  to  sail  it.  Will  you  come  to-mor- 
row?" 

"Yes,  Bobbie,"  his  father  answered  mechanically. 

"  I  wish  you  would  stay  here  every  day.  I  don't 
want  to  ever  go  back  to  the  nasty  old  city.  Why 


THE  BRUTE  243 

don't  you,  papa?  "  He  took  his  father's  hand  again. 
"  I  want  to  show  you  where  Patrick  and  me  found 
a  lot  of  clams  yesterday." 

"  Yes,  dear."  Donald's  voice  was  scarcely  audi- 
ble. There  were  tears  in  his  heart,  if  not  in  his  eyes. 

Edith  came  over  to  the  child,  and  put  her  hand 
upon  his  curly  head.  "  Kiss  papa  good-night,  dear. 
It's  time  you  were  in  bed." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed."  The  boy  looked  at 
his  father  appealingly.  "  Papa,  mayn't  I  stay  up  a 
little  longer?  " 

"  Why,  Bobbie,  you  always  go  to  bed  at  seven 
o'clock." 

"  Not  nights  when  papa  comes,  mamma." 

The  nurse  took  a  step  forward.  "  Come,  Bobbie, 
that's  a  good  boy,"  she  coaxed,  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

The  tumult  in  Donald  Rogers'  brain  ceased.  His 
face  took  on  a  look  of  determination ;  it  was  evident 
that  he  had  arrived  at  a  decision.  He  put  his  arm 
about  the  child's  shoulder.  "  Fannie,  wait  in  the 
dining-room,"  he  said.  "  I  will  call  you  when  I  want 
you."  The  nurse  turned  and  went  into  the  house. 

"  Donald  —  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "     Edith 


244-  THE  BRUTE 

looked  at  his  set  face,  and  a  great  fear  entered  her 
heart. 

"  Go  over  to  that  desk,  and  write  what  I  tell  you," 
he  demanded  sternly,  pointing  to  the  writing-table 
in  the  hall. 

"  What  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  Her  voice  trem- 
bled with  fear,  but  she  made  no  move  to  obey. 

"  Do  what  I  tell  you,"  he  said  harshly. 

"  No !     First  I  must  know  what  I  am  to  write." 

"You  refuse?" 

"  Donald,"  she  cried  piteously,  "  you  can't  mean 
to  ask  me  to  give  up  everything  —  not  now.  Wait, 
dear  —  for  Bobbie's  sake.  No  one  has  any  claim  on 
this  money.  I'll  give  it  all  to  you,  to  do  with  as  you 
like,  but  I  want  Bobbie  to  have  this  summer.  Don't 
you  see  how  well  he  looks  —  how  brown  and  well  and 
strong?  I  can't  let  him  go  back  to  the  city  in  all 
this  heat  —  I  can't !  "  She  was  pleading  now  — 
desperately  —  for  the  sake  of  her  boy. 

"Will  you  do  as  I  say?  "  he  asked  ominously. 

The  thought  of  the  thing  nerved  her  to  sudden  re- 
sistance. "  No !  "  she  declared  angrily.  "  Not  that 
way.  You  are  asking  more  than  you  have  any  right 
to  ask.  I  have  been  foolish,  weak,  disloyal,  and  I 


THE  BRUTE  245 

regret  it  most  bitterly.  You  can  do  what  you 
please,  to  me,  but  you  shall  not  revenge  yourself  upon 
my  boy.  This  money  is  mine.  It  was  left  to  me  by 
a  man  who  loved  me  dearly.  I  am  not  dishonoring 
either  him  or  you  by  using  it  to  make  others  happy. 
You  want  me  to  sacrifice  my  mother's  happiness,  my 
sister's,  my  child's  —  all  to  satisfy  your  sense  of 
pride.  Now  that  someone  else  is  able  to  do  some- 
thing for  me  you  resent  it  because  you  cannot  do  it. 
You  have  no  right  to  ask  me  to  throw  aside  this 
wonderful  opportunity  for  doing  good.  What  would 
you  have  me  do  with  this  money?  Give  it  away? 
To  whom,  then,  should  I  give  it,  if  not  to  those  who 
are  closest  and  dearest  to  me?  What  you  ask  is 
selfish.  You  only  want  to  satisfy  your  man's  pride, 
your  so-called  sense  of  honor.  What  is  your  sense 
of  honor  to  me,  when  the  welfare  of  my  child  is  at 
stake?  Do  what  you  like,  think  what  you  like,  but 
don't  ask  me  to  give  up  this  money,  for  I  won't  do  it 
—  I  won't  —  I  won't !  "  She  stood  facing  him,  her 
hands  clenched,  her  face  flushed  with  passionate  de- 
termination. 

Donald   looked    at   her    in    amazement.     He   had 
thought,  after  the  discovery  of  her  disloyalty,  that 


246  THE  BRUTE 

she  would  accept  his  forgiveness  at  any  price. 
"  What  you  have  just  said,"  he  exclaimed  slowly, 
"  shows  me  that  henceforth  your  path  and  mine  lie 
far  apart.  I  did  not  think  that  you  could  have  said 
such  things,  that  you  could  have  so  far  forgotten 
your  sense  of  honesty  and  right.  Even  after  all  that 
has  happened,  I  thought  that  you  still  loved  me." 

"  I  do  —  I  do  —  and  you  know  it." 

"  No,"  he  said  bitterly,  "  you  do  not  love  me.  A 
woman  who  loves  her  husband  would  live  on  crusts, 
and  go  in  rags,  and  beg  from  door  to  door  before  she 
would  sell  herself  for  a  few  miserable  dollars.  What 
if  you  did  have  to  give  up  your  expensive  dresses, 
your  fine  house,  your  automobiles?  Is  that  any- 
thing, compared  with  giving  up  your  husband's  love? 
Do  you  think  I  want  my  child  to  owe  his  health,  his 
happiness,  the  bed  he  sleeps  on,  the  nurse  who  cares 
for  him,  the  food  he  eats,  the  very  clothes  on  his  back, 
to  the  scoundrel  who  tried  to  ruin  me,  who  tried  to 
deal  me  a  deadlier  blow  than  if  he  had  stabbed  me  in 
the  back  with  a  knife?  What  if  your  home  was 
poor,  and  simple,  and  plain  ?  What  if  it  had  no  lux- 
uries, no  purple  and  fine  linen?  At  least,  it  was  hon- 
est ;  at  least,  I  could  hold  up  my  head  in  it,  and  feel 


THE  BRUTE  247 

that  it  was  all  mine,  that  I  was  a  man.  Do  you 
think  I  can  do  that  here  ?  Do  you  expect  me  to  look 
about  at  all  this  luxury,  and  say  to  myself:  God 
bless  the  man  who  stole  my  wife's  love  from  me,  and 
gave  me  this  in  return?  There  may  be  men  in  the 
world  who  would  take  what  you  offer,  and  be  glad 
of  it,  but  I  thank  God  I  am  not  one  of  them.  As 
long  as  you  are  my  wife,  what  you  have  comes  from 
me  —  do  you  understand,  from  me  —  and,  whether 
it  be  much  or  little,  for  better  or  worse,  you  shall 
accept  what  I  have,  and  make  the  best  of  it ! " 

Edith  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time.  She  found 
no  words  with  which  to  answer  him.  "  Very  well," 
she  said,  at  last,  slowly.  "  At  least  I  have  my  child." 
She  put  out  her  arms.  "  Come,  Bobbie,"  she  said. 

Her  husband  swept  the  boy  to  him.  "  Get  out  of 
my  way ! "  he  cried  roughly,  as  she  attempted  to  in- 
tercept him ;  then  started  down  the  steps  of  the  ver- 
anda. 

"  Donald !  "  she  shrieked.  "  My  God  —  what  are 
you  going  to  do  ?  " 

He  paused  on  the  steps.  "  I'm  going  to  New 
York,"  he  cried.  "  You  can  live  on  the  price  of 
your  shame,  if  you  want  to.  I  and  my  boy  shall 


248  THE  BRUTE 

not ! "  He  dashed  down  the  steps,  and  out  toward 
the  entrance  to  the  grounds,  the  child  held  closely  to 
his  breast. 

"  Donald !  Donald ! "  she  screamed  after  him. 
"  Come  back !  Come  back !  " 

He  went  on,  not  heeding  her  cries,  and,  as  the  bells 
on  the  yachts  in  the  harbor  marked  the  hour  of  seven, 
she  crumpled  up  upon  the  veranda  floor,  clutching 
at  the  arm  of  a  chair  as  she  fell;  and  lay  there,  a 
pathetic,  sobbing  figure,  until  her  mother  and  sister 
found  her,  some  ten  minutes  later. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WHEN  Alice  Pope  and  the  others  returned 
from  their  walk  in  the  garden  they  did  not 
at  first  see  the  crumpled-up  figure  on  the  veranda 
floor  as  they  came  up  the  steps.  Suddenly  Hall 
started  back  with  an  exclamation,  then  ran  over  to 
the  prostrate  woman  and  lifted  her  in  his  arms. 

"  It's  Mrs.  Rogers,"  he  cried.  "  Quick,  some 
whiskey.  She's  fainted." 

Alice  poured  out  some  of  the  spirits  from  the  de- 
canter on  the  table  and  gave  it  to  him.  "  What  can 
have  happened  ? "  she  gasped,  looking  about. 
"  Where  is  Donald?  " 

"  He  must  be  inside.  He  was  here  only  a  moment 
ago."  Mrs.  Pope  took  one  frightened  look  at  her 
daughter's  white  face,  then  rushed  into  the  hall,  call- 
ing loudly  for  her  son-in-law. 

They  carried  the  unconscious  woman  into  the 
house  and  placed  her  upon  a  big  lounge  in  the  hall- 
way. Mrs.  Pope  was  still  waking  the  echoes  of  the 

place  with  her  cries. 

249 


250  THE  BRUTE 

In  a  few  moments  Edith  opened  her  eyes  and  looked 
about.  "  Donald,"  she  gasped,  "  come  back  —  come 
back." 

"Where  has  he  gone,  Edith?"  her  mother  de- 
manded sharply.  "  I  left  you  together." 

Mrs.  Rogers  continued  to  gaze,  frightened,  at  the 
others  as  they  crowded  about  her.  She  dared  not 
speak  —  dared  not  tell  them  the  truth  of  what  had 
happened.  "  We  —  we  had  a  quarrel,"  she  moaned. 
"  Let  me  go  to  my  room."  She  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"  But  —  my  child  —  what  is  the  matter  ?  What 
has  Donald  said  or  done  to  you?  Why  has  he  left 
you  like  this?  He  never  did  have  any  consideration 
for  you,  but  this  is  unpardonable.  Where  is  he?  " 
She  glared  about,  eager  to  pour  out  the  vials  of  her 
wrath  upon  her  son-in-law's  head. 

Edith  staggered  up,  and  made  for  the  stairway. 
"  He's  —  he's  gone  to  New  York.  He  took  Bobbie 
with  him  —  We  had  a  frightful  quarrel  —  Oh  — 
I  can't  tell  you  any  more."  Sobbing  loudly,  she  ran 
up  the  stairs. 

The  others  looked  at  one  another  in  amazement. 
Only  Alice  understood,  and  she  but  vaguely.  How 
had  Donald  found  out?  What  had  been  said?  She 


THE  BRUTE  251 

bethought  herself  of  his  talk  with  Hall,  and  turned 
on  that  young  man,  a  dangerous  glitter  in  her  eyes. 

"  What  did  you  say  to  Donald?  "  she  demanded. 

A  look  of  astonishment  overspread  Mr.  Hall's  usu- 
ally placid  countenance.  The  whole  affair  seemed 
absurd  and  meaningless  to  him,  nor  could  he  see 
wherein  he  had  been  at  fault.  "  We  were  talking 
about  —  about  our  college  days.  I  —  I  mentioned 
some  story  about  Billy  West  —  I  don't  under- 
stand —  " 

Alice  cut  him  short.  "  Never  mind,  Emerson.  It 
isn't  your  fault.  They  probably  quarreled  about 
something  else.  You  and  mother  go  in  and  have 
your  dinner.  I'll  go  up  and  have  a  talk  with  Edith." 

Alice's  talk  with  her  sister  was  short  and  to  the 
point.  Edith,  between  sobs,  told  her  what  Mr.  Hall 
had  said,  and  what,  as  a  consequence,  Donald  had  de- 
manded —  that  she  give  up  West's  money. 

"  Are  you  going  to  do  it  ?  "  Alice  asked. 

"  Oh  —  I  don't  know  —  I  don't  know."  Her  sis- 
ter tossed  about  on  the  bed  where  she  had  thrown 
herself,  moaning  as  though  her  heart  would  break. 

Alice  regarded  her  thoughtfully.  "  I  told  you 
what  he  would  do,"  she  remarked  at  length.  "  I 


252  THE  BRUTE 

don't  blame  him.  But,  after  all,  he  might  be  a  little 
less  unreasonable  —  just  now,  too,  when  Emerson 
and  I  are  about  to  be  engaged.  It's  a  shame !  Why 
didn't  you  humor  him  —  say  you  would  give  the 
money  to  mother,  or  something  like  that?  He  has 
no  right  to  make  such  a  tragedy  of  the  matter. 
Why  not  wait  a  while  and  see  what  he  does?  He 
may  reconsider,  and  come  back." 

"  He  never  will  —  he  never  will." 

"  Well,  then  —  it's  up  to  you  to  decide  which  you 
want  more  —  him,  or  the  money.  It  doesn't  look  as 
though  you  could  have  both.  Take  my  advice  and 
go  to  sleep.  Your  mind  will  be  clearer  in  the  morn- 
ing. I'll  have  Richards  bring  you  up  some  toast 
and  tea.  Now  I'm  going  to  see  what  I  can  do  to  set 
this  thing  right  with  Emerson." 

All  the  next  day  Edith  lay  in  bed,  tortured  by  the 
most  agonizing  thoughts.  At  one  moment  she  would 
decide  to  go  to  Donald  and  beg  his  forgiveness,  with 
all  thoughts  of  the  money  cast  to  the  four  winds. 
At  the  next,  she  would  recoil  before  the  hideous  pros- 
pect of  giving  up  all  that  her  life  now  held,  and  go- 
ing back  to  the  drudgery  of  her  former  existence. 
It  was  a  difficult  position  for  any  woman  to  be  in, 


THE  BRUTE  253 

she  wailed  to  her  mother,  who  sat  beside  her,  alter- 
nately blaming  Donald,  and  reproaching  Edith  for 
not  having  at  once  denied  the  whole  affair. 

"Why  didn't  you  laugh  at  Mr.  Hall's  story?" 
she  demanded.  "  Some  hysterical  tale  of  a  nurse. 
Bah !  I  told  you  he  was  a  fool.  What  right  has 
Donald  to  object,  I  should  like  to  know,  if  you  did 
encourage  Mr.  West  a  little?  I  can't  see  anything 
so  terribly  wrong  in  that.  You  didn't  do  anything 
wrong,  did  you  ?  "  She  became  furious  when  Edith 
mumbled  her  denials.  "  The  man  is  mad.  He 
thinks  he  owns  you,  body  and  soul.  Mr.  West  was 
worth  a  dozen  like  him.  He  could  appreciate  a 
woman's  wants  and  needs.  The  idea  of  demanding 
that  you  give  up  what  rightfully  belongs  to  you  — 
just  to  please  his  whims.  I'd  let  him  understand  that 
he  couldn't  treat  me  as  though  I  were  a  piece  of 
property.  What  has  he  ever  done  for  you,  that  you 
should  be  so  grateful  and  obedient?  Made  you  live 
like  a  servant.  Don't  think  of  going  to  him.  I 
forbid  it.  You  are  my  child,  and  I  have  some  rights. 
Let  me  talk  to  him.  I'll  go  up  to  town  to-night,  and 
tell  him  what  I  think  of  him.  I've  been  waiting  to 
do  so  for  some  time.  As  Alice  suggests,  if  he  ob- 


254  THE  BRUTE 

jects  to  your  keeping  this  money,  promise  to  give  it 
to  me.  I'll  see  that  none  of  it  is  spent  on  him,  since 
it  seems  to  hurt  his  pride  so.  His  honor  dragged 
in  the  mud !  Absurd !  This  honor  he  talks  so  much 
about  isn't  going  to  pay  your  bills,  and  make  your 
life  worth  living,  is  it?  Selfish,  my  dear!  That's 
the  way  with  all  men.  They  want  everything,  and 
are  willing  to  give  nothing.  Even  my  poor,  dear  J. 
B.,  kind  as  he  was,  never  understood  me  thoroughly. 
He  seemed  to  think  that  I  should  humor  him,  and  wait 
on  him,  just  as  though  I  hadn't  any  wifely  rights  at 
all.  I  tell  you,  Edith,  husbands  nowadays  are  get- 
ting to  expect  entirely  too  much.  If  they  give  you 
something  to  eat,  and  a  place  to  sleep,  they  seem  to 
think  that  they  have  done  all  that  is  required  of 
them.  I  wouldn't  stand  it,  for  one.  I  told  your 
father  he  would  have  to  give  me  what  I  was  accus- 
tomed to,  or  I'd  leave  him.  That's  the  way  to  treat 
a  man,  my  child.  Don't  let  Donald  think  you  are  a 
doormat." 

Edith  scarcely  heard  her  mother's  words  as  they 
rumbled  on.  Only  one  suggestion  seemed  good  to 
her,  and  that  was  the  tetter's  plan  to  go  to  New  York 
and  see  Donald.  She  felt  too  ill,  too  greatly  un- 


THE  BRUTE  255 

nerved,  to  do  so  herself,  and  she  was  not  yet  ready  to 
sacrifice  all  the  material  joys  of  her  existence  to 
bring  about  a  reconciliation.  Perhaps  some  com- 
promise might  be  effected.  At  least  her  mother's 
visit  would  show  Donald  that  she  was  ready  to  meet 
him  on  some  common  ground,  whereas  to  ignore  him 
altogether  would  but  widen  the  breach  between  them. 
She  consented,  therefore,  to  her  mother's  going,  and 
wrote  a  little  note  to  Donald,  begging  him  to  forgive 
her,  and  to  return  to  New  London  at  once.  Mean- 
while her  mother  hastened  away  to  prepare  herself 
for  the  fray. 

Alice  came  in  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  told  her 
that  Mr.  Hall  had  proposed  and  that  she  had  ac- 
cepted him.  "  I  don't  know  just  what  Emerson 
thinks,"  she  said.  "  He  hasn't  mentioned  the  matter 
since,  but  I  believe  he  half-suspects  the  truth.  I've 
told  him  nothing,  of  course,  except  that  you  and 
Donald  have  had  a  quarrel,  but  that  everything  will 
be  all  right.  He's  acted  so  nicely  about  it  all, 
though,  that  I  think  I'll  tell  him  the  truth.  He's  go- 
ing up  to  town  with  us  this  afternoon.  Oh,  yes,  I 
am  going,  too.  Mother  is  likely  to  make  a  mess  of 
everything.  You  know  how  she  goes  on,  when  she 


256  THE  BRUTE 

once  gets  started.  I'm  sure  I'd  better  be  on  hand  to 
steady  her  a  bit.  Donald  is  in  no  humor  to  be  trifled 
with." 

"  No,"  murmured  her  sister ;  "  he  isn't.  I  never 
heard  him  speak  so  before.  It  was  terrible." 

Alice  drew  her  mouth  into  a  mirthless  smile  and 
regarded  Edith  critically.  "  I  don't  believe  you 
know  Donald  as  well  as  I  do,"  she  remarked  at  length. 
"  You've  always  thought  him  quiet,  and  mild,  and 
easy-going.  You've  even  complained  to  me  that  he 
had  no  backbone  —  that  he  didn't  master  you.  You 
once  said  you'd  have  cared  for  him  more,  if  he  had. 
You're  like  lots  of  women,  Edith.  You  think  be- 
cause a  man  loves  you,  and  treats  you  tenderly,  he's 
weak.  You'd  rather  be  beaten  than  petted,  I  guess. 
Well,  Sis  —  you've  made  a  big  mistake.  Donald  has 
always  been  like  clay  with  you,  because  he  loved  you, 
but  I  guess  the  fire  that  you've  started  in  him  has 
burnt  him  hard.  Don't  imagine  you  can  pull  any 
wool  over  his  eyes  now.  He's  likely  to  give  you  the 
surprise  of  your  life."  She  went  over  to  the  dressing- 
table  and  began  to  arrange  her  hair.  "  Emerson  is 
going  to  take  mother  and  me  to  dinner  as  soon  as 
we  get  in  town,  and  then  we're  going  up  to  the  apart- 


THE  BRUTE  257 

ment  —  about  eight,  I  think.  We  won't  be  back  un- 
til to-morrow." 

"  Oh  —  if  you  could  only  bring  Bobbie  back  with 
you!" 

"  Not  likely,  Edith.  Donald  loves  that  child  with 
the  love  of  a  strong,  silent  man,  and  he'll  never  give 
him  up." 

"  But  he's  mine  —  mine." 

"  Not  a  bit  more  than  he  is  Donald's.  In  fact, 
I  rather  think  he  has  the  law  on  his  side,  if  you  come 
to  that." 

Edith  renewed  her  sobbing.  "  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  —  I  can't  let  him  stay  there  in  town,  in  all  the 
heat.  It  would  kill  him." 

"  Oh,  no,  it  wouldn't.  Bobbie  isn't  as  frail  as  all 
that.  Of  course  he'd  be  better  off  here,  but  I  guess 
he'll  survive." 

"  Then  you  do  advise  me  to  give  up  the  money?  " 
Edith's  voice  held  a  note  almost  of  anger. 

"  Not  at  all.  I  advise  you  to  give  it  to  mother. 
That  will  satisfy  everybody  —  especially  mother." 

"  And  you,  I  suppose,"  remarked  Edith  petu- 
lantly. 

"  Oh  —  I  don't  care  a  rap.     I'm  too  happy,  think- 


258  THE  BRUTE 

ing  about  Emerson,  to  care  about  money.  All  that 
I  ask  is  that  you  patch  things  up  somehow,  so  as  to 
avoid  a  scandal."  She  turned  to  go.  "  Just  sup- 
pose, Edith,  that  Donald  had  been  on  the  point  of 
leaving  you  with  some  other  woman,  and  the  woman 
had  died,  and  left  him  a  fortune.  Would  you  like  to 
spend  any  of  it?  Think  it  over.  Good-by,  now. 
We've  got  to  hurry,  to  make  that  train." 

Mrs.  Pope  looked  in  for  a  moment  on  her  way 
downstairs.  "  Cheer  up,  my  dear,"  she  said. 
"  Don't  let  this  thing  worry  you  into  a  spell  of  sick- 
ness. I'll  arrange  everything.  I'm  going  to  let 
Donald  see  that  he  isn't  the  only  one  to  be  considered 
in  this  matter.  The  greatest  good  of  the  greatest 
number  —  that's  my  policy.  I  won't  have  any  high- 
flown  theatrical  nonsense  spoil  your  life." 

"  Mother,"  Edith  called  after  her,  "  please  be  care- 
ful what  you  say."  Mrs.  Pope  paid  no  attention  to 
her.  The  militant-looking  feather  upon  her  large 
black  hat  wagged  ominously  as  she  strode  down  the 
stairs.  "  Idiot !  "  she  muttered  to  herself.  "  Why 
can't  he  act  like  a  sensible  human  being?  " 

Left  to  herself,  Edith  started  once  more  the  tread- 
mill of  thought  which  whirled  around  and  around  in 


THE  BRUTE  259 

a  circle,  and  left  her  always  just  where  she  had  begun. 
No  matter  how  she  strove  to  justify  Donald  in  his 
anger,  the  dread  specter  of  poverty  grinned  at  her 
through  all  her  arguments,  and  her  resolutions  fled. 
She  looked  about  the  room.  The  rose  pink  velvet 
carpet,  the  soft  white  bearskin  rug  beside  the  bed, 
the  lovely  wall  paper,  the  exquisite  hangings,  the 
graceful  mahogany  furniture,  all  called  to  her  com- 
pellingly.  One  of  the  maids,  entering  soft-footed, 
brought  her  some  bouillon  and  the  breast  of  a  chicken, 
on  a  silver  tray.  The  servant  moved  about  noise- 
lessly, pulling  down  the  shades  to  shut  out  the  after- 
noon sun.  Edith  drew  her  clinging  silk  night-dress 
about  her  throat,  and  sat  up. 

"  Will  madam  have  a  glass  of  sherry  ?  "  the  maid 
asked,  as  she  removed  an  immense  bunch  of  roses  from 
the  low  wicker  table,  and  placed  the  tray  upon  it. 

Edith  thought  she  would.  Somehow,  she  was  be- 
ginning to  feel  better.  Her  mother,  with  Alice's  as- 
sistance, would  doubtless  arrange  everything  satis- 
factorily. After  all,  she  had  done  no  wrong.  She 
ate  the  chicken  with  considerable  relish  and  sent  the 
maid  for  some  fruit.  How  different  all  this  was 
from  the  dingy,  ill-smelling  little  apartment  of  the 


260  THE  BRUTE 

past,  where  half  her  life  was  spent  over  the  gas  range. 
It  all  seemed  very  far  away  from  her,  as  she  sank 
luxuriously  back  among  the  pillows  and  picked  up 
a  book  she  had  been  trying  to  read. 

The  book  proved  dull  and  uninteresting.  In  a 
little  while  she  fell  asleep.  As  she  lay  there,  her  firm 
round  throat  exposed,  her  lips,  red  and  full,  slightly 
parted  over  her  small  white  teeth,  she  looked  very 
alluring  —  very  beautiful.  The  maid  coming  to  the 
door,  closed  it  softly,  and  went  downstairs  to  discuss 
the  scandal  of  Mr.  Rogers'  disappearance  with  Pat- 
rick and  Fannie  and  the  other  servants.  Over  the 
whole  house  brooded  the  hot  white  silence  of  a  mid- 
August  day. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IT  was  close  to  midnight  when  Donald  Rogers,  with 
Bobbie  asleep  in  his  arms,  reached  the  door  of 
his  apartment  in  One  Hundred  and  Tenth  Street. 
The  little  fellow  had  protested  at  first  against  this 
unexpected  journey,  but  was  too  tired  to  give  the 
matter  much  thought,  and  soon  slipped  away  into  the 
land  of  dreams,  where  he  found  himself  gaily  sailing 
his  pony  cart,  which,  strangely  enough,  seemed  to 
resemble  a  sailboat,  with  the  pony  sitting  beside  him 
in  a  very  dignified  manner,  acting  as  crew. 

Donald  himself  spent  a  sleepless  night.  The  cruel 
revelation  of  the  treachery  to  which  he  had  been  sub- 
jected at  the  hands  of  his  best  friend,  and,  crowning 
this,  the  knowledge  that  his  wife  had  been  equally 
untrue,  left  him  like  a  man  shipwrecked  on  an  island 
of  desolation,  with  no  one  to  whom  he  could  turn  for 
help  or  sympathy.  He  had  trusted  Edith  implicitly 
—  had  given  her  the  best  there  was  in  him  all  these 
years ;  and  now  it  seemed  that  nothing  but  a  cup  of 

bitterness    was    to    be    his    reward.     The    minutes 

261 


262  THE  BRUTE 

dragged  as  though  they  were  hours,  and  it  seemed 
as  though  the  dawn  would  never  come.  But  at  last 
the  wretched  night  was  over,  and  morning  found  him 
in  the  little  kitchenette,  trying  painfully,  with  un- 
accustomed fingers,  to  prepare  breakfast  for  Bobbie 
and  himself. 

Most  of  the  day  he  spent  with  the  child,  wandering 
through  the  park,  his  thoughts  never  far  removed 
from  the  tragic  moments  of  the  evening  before. 
What  would  Edith  do?  was  his  incessant  thought. 
He  felt  sure  that  she  would  come  to  him  because  of 
Bobbie,  but  he  was  by  no  means  certain,  realizing  her 
innate  vanity,  that  she  would  consent  to  give  up  the 
money  which  West  had  left  her,  in  return  for  his 
forgiveness.  On  no  other  condition,  however,  would 
he  treat  with  her.  On  this  point  he  was  fully  de- 
termined. 

The  dusk  of  evening  found  Bobbie  and  himself 
dining  solemnly  together  in  a  little  restaurant  at 
which  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  getting  his  meals 
during  the  hot  weather. 

On  their  return  to  the  apartment,  Donald,  avoid- 
ing Bobbie's  questions  as  far  as  he  could,  regarding 
his  mother's  absence,  sent  the  little  fellow  to  his 


THE  BRUTE  263 

room,  and  sank  into  his  accustomed  seat  by  the 
desk,  staring  moodily  into  space.  The  sound  of 
the  buzzer  in  the  kitchen,  announcing  that  the 
janitor  was  ready  to  remove  the  garbage,  brought 
him  back  with  a  sudden  shock  from  his  dreaming, 
and  he  began  to  realize  his  utter  loneliness.  He 
picked  up  a  paper,  and  made  an  ineffectual  attempt 
to  read;  but  for  some  minutes  was  unable  to  con~ 
centrate  his  mind  on  the  page  before  him.  Presently 
there  emerged  from  the  maze  of  type  the  flaring 
headline : 

DIVORCED  AFTER  TEN  YEARS'  MARRIED 
BLISS. 

WIFE  GETS  CHILDREN  —  HUSBAND  A 
SUICIDE. 

He  threw  down  the  paper  with  a  curse,  and  strode 
impatiently  up  and  down  the  room,  glancing  from 
time  to  time  at  his  watch.  A  faint  voice  from  the 
bedroom  door  caused  him  to  pause. 

"  Papa,"  it  said. 

He  turned  and  saw  Bobbie  standing  in  the  door- 
way. "  Why  don't  you  go  to  bed,  Bobbie?  "  he  ex- 


THE  BRUTE 

claimed,  almost  irritably,  but  his  manner  changed 
as  he  observed  the  pathetic,  appealing  little  figure. 
The  child  had  taken  off  his  blouse*  and  wore  only  his 
little  undershirt  and  his  shoes. 

"  Won't  you  take  off  my  shoes,  papa?  I  got  them 
all  tied  in  knots."  He  glanced  reproachfully  down 
at  the  cause  of  his  trouble. 

With  a  great  pain  gripping  at  his  heart  at  the 
helplessness  of  the  child,  Donald  came  quickly  for- 
ward, and,  seating  himself,  placed  the  boy  on  his 
knee. 

"  We'll  soon  fix  that,  little  man,"  he  said,  as  he 
began  to  remove  the  shoes. 

"  Papa  —  where  is  mamma  ?  " 

"  She's  in  the  country,  dear." 

"When  is  she  coming?  " 

"I  don't  know,  Bobbie,"  he  responded,  with  a 
heavy  sigh.  In  his  interest  in  the  child  he  had  for 
the  moment  almost  forgotten  the  absence  of  his 
wife. 

"  Is  she  coming  to-night,  papa  ?  "  the  little  fellow 
continued  tremulously. 

"  No,  Bobbie,  not  to-night." 

"  Why  isn't  she,  papa?  "     And  then,  after  a  short 


THE  BRUTE  265 

interval  of  puzzled  reflection :  "  She  belongs  here, 
doesn't  she?" 

"  She  can't  come  to-night,  my  child.  And  you 
must  be  a  good  little  fellow,  and  not  ask  papa  any 
more  about  it.  Now,  it's  time  you  went  to  sleep," 
he  concluded,  as  he  finished  his  task. 

"  Papa,  are  you  angry  with  mamma?  " 

The  childish  question  hurt  him  to  the  quick. 
"  Don't  bother  your  little  head  about  it,  my  child. 
You  wouldn't  understand.  Remember  that  she  is 
your  mother,  and  you  must  love  her  always." 

"  I  do,  papa.  She  got  me  my  pony,  and  my  boat, 
and  lots  of  things.  I  wish  she  was  here  right  now." 

"  You  must  be  patient,  dear,  and  go  to  sleep 
quietly,  like  a  good  boy.  To-morrow  I  will  get  a 
nice,  kind  lady  to  take  care  of  you." 

"  I  don't  want  a  nice,  kind  lady.  I  want  my 
mamma.  She  always  hears  me  say  my  Now-I-lay- 
me." 

"  Your  what  ?  "  he  asked,  not  understanding. 

"  My  Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep.  That's  my 
prayers.  She  always  hears  me  say  them  when  she 
comes  to  kiss  me  good  night." 

He  looked   away,   with   a   sudden   rush   of  pain. 


266  THE  BRUTE 

There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  now.  "  Of  course. 
Bobbie  —  I  —  I  understand,"  he  faltered. 

"  She  said  I  must  never,  never  skip,  for  the  Lord 
would  know,  and  be  angry.'* 

"  Let  me  hear  you,  dear." 

"  Do  you  know  prayers  ?  "  The  child  looked  at 
his  father  in  wonder.  "  I  didn't  know  men  knew 
prayers." 

"  Yes,  Bobbie.     Sometimes  they  do.     Go  ahead." 

The  child  folded  his  hands,  and  stood  at  his 
father's  knee.  "  If  I  don't  remember  it  all,  you  must 
tell  me,"  he  continued. 

"  Very  well,  dear ;  I  will."  The  tears  were  coming 
fast  now. 

"  '  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep,  I  pray  the  Lord 
my  soul  to  —  to  — : '  "  The  quavering  little  voice 
halted. 

"  *  Keep,' "  his  father  supplied. 

"  *  Keep.  If  I  should  die  before  I  wake,  I  pray 
the  Lord  my  soul  to  take.  Amen.' '  He  looked  at 
his  father  expectantly.  "  You  didn't  say,  *  Amen,' 
papa.  Mamma  always  says  it." 

"  '  Amen,'  "  repeated  Donald  gravely,  as  he  kissed 
the  boy's  tousled  head. 


THE  BRUTE  267 

"  Do  you  think,  papa,  if  I  pray  the  Lord  to  send 
mamma  back,  she  will  come?  " 

"  I  think  she  might,  dear.  When  you  go  to  bed, 
you  must  wish  that  she  will  just  as  hard  as  you 
can." 

"  And  then  to-morrow  she  will  be  here?  "  cried  the 
child  eagerly. 

"I  —  I  hope  so,  dear.  Are  you  ready  now ?  " 
He  rose  and  led  the  little  fellow  toward  the  bedroom 
door. 

"  Yes,  papa.  I'm  not  afraid  now.  Good-night." 
He  put  up  his  face  to  be  kissed. 

"  Good-night,  dear."  The  father  kissed  him  al- 
most reverently,  and,  after  the  door  was  closed,  stood 
for  a  long  time  gazing  at  it  —  his  face  twitching. 
Then  he  threw  himself  into  a  chair,  rested  his  arms 
upon  the  desk,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  in 
a  paroxysm  of  sobbing.  It  was  the  first  time  in 
many  years  that  Donald  Rogers  had  cried. 

It  was  some  ten  minutes  later  that  he  was  roused 
by  the  ringing  of  the  doorbell.  He  rose,  crossed 
to  the  door,  and  opened  it,  to  admit  Mrs.  Pope  and 
Alice. 

Mrs.  Pope  advanced  into  the  room  with  her  ac- 


268  THE  BRUTE 

customed  air'  of  ruffled  dignity.  "  Donald  —  what 
does  all  this  foolishness  mean  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  he  answered  shortly. 
"  What  do  you  want  here  ?  " 

"  Can  you  have  the  audacity  to  ask  me  that  ?  I 
am  here  to  protect  my  daughter's  rights." 

"  Did  she  send  you  ?  "  he  asked  quietly. 

"  I  do  not  need  anyone  to  send  me  when  my  child's 
happiness  is  at  stake.  What  does  this  outrageous 
conduct  mean?  " 

"  Mother !  For  goodness  sake,  be  a  little  more 
polite,"  interjected  Alice. 

"  Alice,  be  quiet ! "  Her  mother  regarded  her 
with  stern  disapproval.  "  This  is  no  time  for 
mincing  matters."  She  turned  angrily  to  her  son- 
in-law.  "Do  you  intend  to  answer  my  question?  " 

Donald  regarded  her  with  a  dislike  he  took  no 
pains  to  hide.  "  I  owe  no  explanation  of  my  con- 
duct to  you,"  he  said. 

"  Sir,  do  you  think  a  mother  has  no  rights  ?  " 

Again  Alice  interrupted.  "  Mother  —  wait  — 
please."  She  stepped  between  them.  "  Edith  is 
suffering  very  much,  Donald." 

"  So  am  I,"  he  remarked  grimly. 


THE  BRUTE  269 

"  Then  why  don't  you  stop  it?  "  Mrs.  Pope  was 
not  to  be  put  off.  "  What  do  you  mean  by  dash- 
ing out  of  the  house  like  a  madman,  kidnaping  your 
child,  and  disgracing  us  all  before  a  stranger?  It's 
outrageous ! " 

"Disgracing  you!  What  about  my  disgrace?  '* 
Donald  turned  from  her  and  addressed  himself  to 
Alice.  "  Alice,"  he  asked,  "  does  your  mother  know 
why  I  left  New  London?  Do  you?  " 

"  Yes  —  I  —  know  what  Emerson  said." 

Again  Mrs.  Pope  interrupted.  "  I  know  that  you 
accuse  my  daughter  of  carrying  on  a  love-affair  with 
Mr.  West,"  she  cried.  "  I  don't  believe  it  —  but 
what  of  it?  What  if  she  did?  You  did  precious 
little  for  her,  goodness  knows.  Now  that  she  has  a 
little  happiness,  you  want  to  take  it  away  from  her, 
just  because  you  didn't  give  it  to  her.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself ! " 

"  I'll  settle  this  matter  with  my  wife  —  not  with 
you."  Donald's  voice  showed  his  irritation  at  her 
interference. 

"  Poor  child !  My  poor  child !  Why  will  you 
not  listen  to  reason?" 

"  I  don't  care  to  discuss  the  matter  any  further. 


270  THE  BRUTE 

Our  ideas  are  too  different  on  some  subjects."  He 
went  over  toward  the  desk,  turning  his  back  upon 
the  others. 

Mrs.  Pope,  however,  refused  to  be  turned  aside. 
"  I  should  hope  they  were,"  she  asserted  doggedly. 
"  I  didn't  come  here  to  discuss  the  matter,  either.  I 
came  to  ask  you  to  come  back  to  New  London  with 
Bobbie  at  once." 

"  What  you  ask  is  impossible,"  said  Donald,  with- 
out turning.  "  I  shall  never  go  back  there  again." 

"  What !  After  taking  the  house  for  the  sum- 
mer ?  What  will  everyone  think  ?  " 

"  It  makes  no  difference  to  me  what  they  think. 
It  is  what  I  think  that  concerns  me  now." 

"  You  always  did  think  of  no  one  but  yourself. 
Do  you  expect  my  daughter  to  spend  the  summer 
there  alone?  Can't  you  see  that  it  is  out  of  the 
question?  "  Mrs.  Pope  was  shaking  with  rage. 

"  No,"  cried  Donald,  turning  on  her  angrily.  "  I 
do  not  expect  her  to  spend  the  summer  there  alone. 
I  expect  her  to  return  here  to  me." 

"  To  return  here ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pope,  aghast. 
"  To  spend  the  summer  in  this  place !  Are  you 
mad?  " 


THE  BRUTE 

"No  — ; I  am  not.  Sometimes  I  think  money  has 
made  you  so." 

Mrs.  Pope  paid  no  attention  to  his  words.  She 
was  too  busy  trying  to  grasp  the  full  purport  of 
what  she  had  just  heard.  "  What  can  you  be  think- 
ing of?  "  she  cried.  "  Spend  the  summer  here  — 
in  this  tenement  —  with  thirty  thousand  dollars  a 
year  ?  " 

Donald  regarded  her  coldly.  "  My  wife  will  not 
have  thirty  thousand  dollars  a  year  if  she  returns 
here,"  he  said.  "  She  will  have  what  I  am  able  to 
give  her,  and  no  more." 

"  Then  what  on  earth  will  she  do  with  her 
money?  " 

"  I  intend  that  she  shall  give  it  to  charity." 

"Charity!  Doesn't  charity  begin  at  home?  If 
you  are  mad  enough  to  deprive  her  of  it,  she  must 
give  it  to  Alice  and  to  me." 

"  Never  —  with  my  consent.  That  would  be  the 
same  as  if  she  had  it  herself." 

"  Half  a  million  dollars !  To  charity !  I  shall 
use  every  effort  to  prevent  her  from  making  such 
a  fool  of  herself.  I  insist  that  she  give  the  money 
to  Alice  and  me." 


THE  BRUTE 

"  Count  me  out,  mother,"  exclaimed  Alice,  with  a 
short  laugh.  "  Emerson  wouldn't  let  me  touch  a 
cent  of  it.  He  told  me  so." 

"  Does  Mr.  Hall  know  about  this  ?  "  asked  Donald 
suddenly. 

"  Of  course  he  does.  How  could  he  help  it  ?  Do 
you  suppose  I  could  keep  it  from  him,  after  what 
you  did  last  night  ?  Edith  in  hysterics  —  you  and 
Bobbie  gone  —  mother  carrying  on  like  a  chicken 
with  its  head  off.  What  could  you  expect?  " 

"  And  he  refuses  to  let  you  have  any  share  in 
this  money?  " 

"  I  don't  believe  he'd  marry  me,  if  I  had.  Emer- 
son's mighty  independent.  He  says  he  has  enough 
for  both  of  us,  and  what  he  hasn't  we'll  do  without." 

"  God  bless  him !  "  said  Donald  earnestly.  "  He's 
a  man ! " 

"  He's  a  fool,"  Mrs.  Pope  exclaimed  angrily ;  "  as 
big  a  one  as  you  are." 

Her  words,  her  manner  since  entering  the  room, 
had  slowly  been  causing  Donald  to  lose  his  tem- 
per. 

"  No !  "  he  blazed  out,  facing  her.  "  You  are  the 
one  who  is  a  fool.  What  have  you  been  drumming 


THE  BRUTE  273 

into  your  daughters'  heads  for  years?  Money! 
Money!  Nothing  but  money!  You  would  put  up 
your  children  at  auction,  and  sell  them  to  the  highest 
bidder,  just  for  money.  You  come  here  and  blame 
me  for  all  this  trouble,  and  you  haven't  sense  enough 
to  see  that  it  is  all  your  fault,  and  yours  alone. 
Ever  since  Edith  and  I  were  married  you  have  talked 
to  her  of  nothing  but  my  poverty,  my  shortcomings, 
my  failures.  You  have  preached  discontent  to  her 
until  she  was  ready  to  fall  in  love  with  the  first  man 
who  came  along  with  a  little  more  money  than  I 
had.  You  are  the  cause  of  all  this  trouble  —  you, 
and  nobody  else.  Don't  come  here  and  talk  to  me 
about  my  conduct.  Try  to  be  a  little  more  careful 
of  your  own." 

Mrs.  Pope  took  out  her  handkerchief  and  applied 
it  gently  to  her  eyes.  "And  is  this  the  thanks  I 
get,  after  all  these  years  ? "  she  said  tearfully. 
Then  she  turned  to  Alice :  "  Are  you  against  your 
poor  sister,  too  ?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not.  I  want  to  see  Edith  happy,  and 
I  don't  think  she  ever  will  be  as  long  as  she  keeps 
a  cent  of  this  money.  I  know  I  advised  her  to  keep 
it  in  the  first  place.  I  thought  she  could  do  lots 


274-  THE  BRUTE 

of  good  with  it.  So  she  could,  if  Emerson  hadn't 
put  his  foot  in  it.  As  it  is,  I  don't  see  anything 
for  her  to  do  but  give  it  up." 

"  You've  changed  a  good  deal,  it  seems  to  me," 
remarked  her  mother  stiffly. 

"  I  have.     I've  talked  it  over  with  Emerson." 

"  Emerson !  Pooh !  "  Mrs.  Pope  gave  an  indig- 
nant snort. 

"  Never  you  mind  about  Emerson,"  said  Alice 
with  spirit.  "  He  and  I  are  going  to  find  happiness 
in  Chicago,  in  our  own  way.  I  know  you  don't  like 
him,  so  perhaps  it's  just  as  well  we  are  going  to 
live  a  thousand  miles  off." 

Mrs.  Pope  began  to  weep  audibly.  "  Of  all  the 
thankless  tasks,"  she  groaned,  "  a  mother's  is  the 
worst.  Here  I've  spent  twenty-five  years  in  raising 
you  girls,  living  for  you,  waiting  on  you,  slaving  for 
you;  and,  now,  you  turn  on  me  like  this.  It's  a 
shame  —  that's  what  it  is  —  a  shame !  When  my 
poor,  dear  J.  B.  was  alive  — 

"  Never  mind  about  that  now,  mother.  We  didn't 
come  up  here  to  have  a  family  row.  Let's  see  if  we 
can't  fix  up  this  trouble  between  Donald  and  Edith." 
She  turned  to  her  brother-in-law  with  a  look  of  deep 


THE  BRUTE  275 

concern.  "  Mother  insisted  upon  this  interview, 
Donald.  I  told  her  it  would  do  no  good." 

"  Not  if  Donald  insists  upon  making  beggars  of 
us  all,"  Mrs.  Pope  interrupted  tearfully. 

Alice  took  no  notice  of  her  interruption.  "  You 
got  Edith's  note  ?  "  she  continued. 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  going  to  her?  " 

"  No.  She  must  come  to  me.  You  can  tell  her 
so.  But  I  insist  upon  seeing  her  alone."  He 
glanced  significantly  at  Mrs.  Pope. 

"  I  shall  not  inflict  my  company  upon  you  any 
longer,  Mr.  Rogers,"  exclaimed  the  latter  indig- 
nantly. "  Good-night ! "  She  swept  toward  the 
door.  Alice  followed  her. 

"  Good-night,  Donald,"  Alice  said,  as  she  left  the 
room.  "  I  hope  you  and  Edith  will  come  to  some 
sort  of  an  agreement.  Remember  Bobbie." 

Left  alone,  Donald  went  slowly  over  to  the  chair 
in  which  he  had  been  sitting,  and,  stooping,  gathered 
up  Bobbie's  little  shoes  and  stockings,  and  placed 
them  gently  within  the  bedroom.  Then  he  began  to 
pace  endlessly  up  and  down  the  floor. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ON  the  following  morning  Donald  Rogers  deter- 
mined to  go  down  to  Mr.  Brennan's  office 
and  have  a  talk  with  him.  As  the  executor  of 
West's  estate,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Rogers'  attorney,  he 
felt  that  the  lawyer  might  be  able  to  suggest  a  basis 
for  an  understanding  of  some  sort  between  Edith 
and  himself.  Bobbie  he  took  to  his  own  office  and 
left  in  the  care  of  his  draughtsman.  The  child  was 
delighted,  and  spent  the  morning  drawing  ships  and 
dogs  and  many  other  things  upon  a  great  sheet  of 
cardboard  with  which  the  latter  provided  him. 

Mr.  Brennan  was  luckily  in.  Perhaps  he  sus- 
pected the  object  of  Donald's  visit  —  at  any  rate 
he  received  him  at  once,  dismissed  the  stenographer 
who  had  been  taking  notes  at  his  side,  and  waved  his 
caller  to  a  chair. 

"  Glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Rogers,*'  he  began. 
"  How  is  Mrs.  Rogers?  I  trust  she  is  enjoying  her 
stay  at  the  seashore." 

"  Mrs.  Rogers  is  very  well."     Donald  nervously 
276 


THE  BRUTE  277 

began  to  light  a  cigar,  fumbling  with  the  matches 
awkwardly  in  his  agitation.  Now  that  he  was  with 
Mr.  Brennan,  he  felt  at  a  loss  to  know  how  to  begin. 

"  Let  me  see.  You  are  at  New  London,  are  you 
not?  Beautiful  old  place.  I  spent  a  summer  there, 
once.  You  go  down  for  the  week  ends,  I  presume." 

Donald  ceased  his  efforts  to  light  the  cigar,  threw 
the  box  of  matches,  which  Mr.  Brennan  had  handed 
him,  upon  the  desk,  and  looked  up. 

"  Yes.  I  was  there  on  Saturday.  I  left  Satur- 
day night.  I  had  a  disagreement  with  Mrs.  Rogers. 
That's  what  I  came  to  see  you  about." 

Mr.  Brennan  raised  his  eyebrows,  put  on  his 
glasses  slowly,  and  inspected  his  caller  with  delib- 
erate care.  "  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  it,  Mr.  Rog- 
ers," he  said.  "  Nothing  serious,  I  trust?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  it  is  —  very." 

"  H  —  m.  Dear  me !  And  what  can  I  do  in  the 
matter?  " 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  both  Mrs.  Rogers  and  my- 
self. I  want  your  advice.  I  want  you  to  see  her  — 
to  talk  to  her." 

"What's  the  trouble?  "  Brennan  sat  back  in  his 
chair,  prepared  to  listen,  with  a  grave  suspicion  in 


278  THE  BRUTE 

his  mind  as  to  the  cause  of  Donald's  heavy  eyes  and 
careworn  face. 

"  Before  I  can  discuss  the  matter  with  you,  Mr. 
Brennan,  I  want  to  ask  you  one  question." 

"Yes?     What  is  it?" 

"  Do  you  know  why  West  left  his  money  to  my 
wife?  " 

"  My  dear  sir.  That  is  a  very  peculiar  question. 
How  should  I  know?  " 

"  You  were  the  executor  of  his  will." 

"  Undoubtedly.  Yet  I  fail  to  see  what  that  has 
to  do  with  it." 

"  You  must  have  seen  his  papers  —  his  letters." 
Donald  looked  at  the  lawyer  intently.  "  Answer  me 
frankly,  Mr.  Brennan.  Do  you  know?  " 

"  Surely,  Mr.  Rogers,  you  can  hardly  expect  me 
to  answer  such  a  question,  even  granting  that  I  could 
do  so." 

"Why  not?" 

"  As  executor  of  Mr.  West's  will,  it  is  certainly 
not  my  business  to  discuss  the  reasons  which  may 
have  prompted  him  to  make  it." 

Donald  rose  and  went  over  to  the  lawyer.  "  Mr. 
Brennan,"  he  cried,  "  don't  try  to  quibble  with  me. 


THE  BRUTE  279 

I  have  asked  you  a  plain,  blunt  question.  You  are 
under  no  obligation  to  answer  it,  of  course,  but,  un- 
til you  do  so,  we  can  proceed  no  further." 

"  I  always  supposed  it  was  because  he  was  very 
fond  of  her,"  ventured  the  lawyer  uneasily. 

"  Fond  of  her !  Yes !  But  how,  Mr.  Brennan  ? 
How?  " 

"  They  were  very  old  friends,  were  they  not?  " 

"Were  they  nothing  more?"  Donald  leaned 
over  the  desk  and  fixed  his  eyes  keenly  upon  those  of 
the  man  opposite  him.  He  felt  the  blood  surging  to 
his  temples.  "  Why  don't  you  answer  me,  Mr.  Bren- 
nan ?  "  he  went  on,  as  the  lawyer  dropped  his  eyes. 
"  Were  they  nothing  more  ?  " 

His  searching  questions  began  to  annoy  the  law- 
yer. "  Why  do  you  ask  me  such  a  question,  Mr. 
Rogers  ?  "  he  snapped. 

"  Only  to  find  out  how  much  you  know.  Mrs. 
Rogers  has  confessed  everything  to  me.  You  can  do 
her  no  harm  by  telling  me  the  truth,  and  you  will 
make  it  much  easier  for  us  to  go  ahead.  Do  you 
know?  " 

"  Yes,"  Brennan  answered  at  length,  in  a  low 
voice. 


280  THE  BRUTE 

"  How?  " 

"  All  the  letters  your  wife  wrote  to  West  came  to 
me  along  with  his  other  papers." 

Donald  recoiled  in  bitterness  of  spirit.  However 
certain  he  had  been  of  Edith's  guilt,  he  still  hoped 
that  Mr.  Brennan,  in  some  way,  might  disclose  miti- 
gating circumstances,  facts  of  which  he  himself  was 
not  cognizant,  whereby  her  affair  with  West  might 
present  an  appearance  less  damning. 

"  My  God ! "  he  muttered.  "  And  you  read 
them?" 

"  Yes.  I  considered  it  my  duty  to  examine  all 
his  papers." 

"  How  did  you  know  they  were  from  my  wife  ?  " 

"  By  her  initials,  signed  to  them  — •  by;  the  hand- 
writing." 

"  And  you  have  known  this  all  these  months,  and 
said  nothing?  "  Donald  strode  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  The  North  River,  quivering  in  the  hot 
sunlight,  was  a  clutter  of  barges,  tugs  and  ferry- 
boats, but  his  eyes,  blurred  with  tears,  saw  nothing. 
Presently  he  turned.  "  Where  are  those  letters 
now?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  do  not  know.     I  gave  them  to  Mrs.  Rogers. 


THE  BRUTE  281 

I  advised  her  to  destroy  them.  I  presume  she  has 
done  so." 

An  angry  light  crept  into  Donald's  eyes.  "You 
had  no  right  —  "  he  began  hotly. 

Mr.  Brennan  raised  his  hand.  "  You  are  in  error, 
Mr.  Rogers.  I  had  every  right.  The  letters  be- 
longed to  your  wife,  by  law.  Mr.  West  left  her 
everything  he  possessed." 

"  What  did  she  say  to  him?  "  He  strode  excitedly 
toward  the  desk.  "  Tell  me,  man.  Can't  you  see 
what  it  means  to  me?  " 

"  They  were  the  letters  of  a  weak,  foolish  woman, 
Mr.  Rogers  —  not  a  bad  one  —  of  that  I  am  sure." 

"  Not  a  bad  one?     You  mean  —  ?  " 

"  I  mean,  Mr.  Rogers,  that  whatever  your  wife 
may  have  intended  to  do  —  however  far  she  may 
have  intended  to  go  —  West's  death  saved  her  from 
the  one  step  which  the  world  considers  unforgivable." 

"  I  hope  you  are  right  —  God  knows  I  hope  you 
are  right." 

"  I  am  sure  that  I  am.  Now  tell  me  what  has 
happened." 

"  I  have  left  my  wife.  I  have  left  her,  and  taken 
my  boy." 


283  THE  BRUTE 

"  Well  —  now  that  you  have  taken  that  step,  what 
do  you  propose  to  do  next?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  That  is  what  I  want  to  discuss 
with  you.  It  is  a  terrible  situation.  I  scarcely 
know  which  way  to  turn.  She  has  sent  me  a  letter, 
asking  me  to  see  her.  I  have  agreed  to  do  so  — 
to-day.  What  I  shall  say  to  her  I  do  not  know. 
Within  the  past  forty-eight  hours  I  have  had  every 
good  and  kind  and  generous  impulse  within  me  shat- 
tered and  destroyed.  The  friend  that  I  loved  and 
trusted  has  betrayed  me.  The  wife  for  whom  I 
would  have  given  my  life  has  proven  disloyal  - 
false.  My  self-respect  is  gone.  My  home  is  a 
wreck.  The  money  that  keeps  it  up  comes  from  a 
man  who  did  his  best  to  ruin  me."  He  began  to 
walk  about,  distracted,  his  voice  choking  with  feel- 
ing. "  Is  it  any  wonder  that  I  feel  bitter?  Is  it 
any  wonder  that  I  do  not  know  what  to  do  ?  " 

The  lawyer  removed  his  glasses  and  considered 
them  carefully  for  a  long  time.  The  problem  was 
indeed  a  serious  one. 

Presently  he  spoke.  "  The  first  consideration,  of 
course,  is  your  child." 

"  I  know  it.     I  have  taken  him  from  his  mother. 


THE  BRUTE  283 

He  wants  her  —  needs  her.  Have  I  the  right  to  de- 
prive him  of  her  love?  " 

"  Not  unless  she  has  proven  herself  unworthy  of 
it." 

"  Hasn't  she?  Is  a  woman  who  is  unfaithful  to 
her  husband  —  who  is  willing  to  live  on  the  money 
given  her  by  the  man  who  made  her  so  —  is  such  a 
woman  fit  to  bring  up  a  child  —  to  teach  him  to  be 
straightforward,  and  honest,  and  good?" 

"  You  use  strong  terms,  Mr.  Rogers.  As  I  said 
before,  I  do  not  believe  your  wife  has  been  unfaith- 
ful to  you." 

"  I  do  not  refer  to  any  specific  act.  Unfaithful- 
ness is  not  alone  a  physical  thing.  She  has  fallen 
in  love  with  another  man.  She  has  agreed  to  aban- 
don her  husband,  and  run  away  with  him.  She  was 
willing  to  sacrifice  even  her  child,  by  robbing  him  of 
his  father.  In  one  week  more,  but  for  this  man's 
death,  she  would  have  done  all  these  things.  Is  not 
such  a  woman  unfaithful?  Is  not  that  enough? 
Could  any  one  act  have  made  her  more  so?  If  your 
wife  were  to  do  these  things,  would  you  not  call  her 
unfaithful?  " 

"  You  refuse  to  forgive  her,  then  ?  " 


284,  THE  BRUTE 

"  No.  I  do  not  refuse  to  forgive  her.  I  have  told 
her  that  I  am  ready  to  do  so,  on  one  condition." 

"  What  is  that  condition,  Mr.  Rogers  ?  " 

"  That  she  give  up  this  man's  money." 

"  Has  she  agreed?  " 

"  No.     She  has  refused." 

"  Why  do  you  insist  on  that?  " 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  do  not  understand? 
What  else  can  I  do?  If  she  returns  to  me,  it  must 
be  with  clean  hands." 

"  You  ask  a  great  deal,  Mr.  Rogers.  It  seems 
to  me  that  your  chances  for  happiness  would  be 
a  great  deal  better,  if  you  were  to  let  her  keep  this 
money." 

"Man  —  do  you  realize  what  you  are  saying? 
Isn't  there  a  greater  question  at  stake  than  just 
my  happiness?  Isn't  it  right?  Isn't  it  her  duty? 
Isn't  it  necessary  to  her  own  self-respect?  I  cannot 
see  how  she  could  hesitate  for  a  moment." 

"  Then  you  do  not  understand  women.  There  are 
not  many  of  them,  situated  as  she  is,  who  could  resist 
the  temptation  of  thirty  thousand  dollars  a  year." 

"  Then  you  defend  her,  Mr.  Brennan.  I  did  not 
expect  it  from  you.  I  had  hoped  you  would  see  her 


THE  BRUTE  285 

—  talk  to  her  —  show  her  what  a  terrible  mistake 
she  is  making." 

The  lawyer  rose,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
in  deep  thought.  All  his  life,  he  had  been  concerned 
with  the  one  idea,  the  one  duty  —  that  of  preserving 
for  his  clients  every  dollar  that  the  law  allowed  them. 
Money  in  a  way  had  become  almost  sacred  to  him. 
Other  points  of  view  seemed  foolish,  quixotic.  "  I'm 
a  cold-blooded,  practical  man,  Mr.  Rogers.  Life  as  I 
have  seen  it  has  not  made  me  sentimental.  Lawyers 
rarely  are.  Half  a  million  dollars  is  a  large  sum  of 
money.  It  means  freedom  from  all  the  wretched, 
grinding  cares  of  existence,  that  fret  out  one's  soul. 
Few  things  in  life  make  much  difference,  after  all, 
if  one  has  a  comfortable  bank-balance.  You  ask 
your  wife  to  give  up  all  that  this  money  means,  and 
come  back  to  poverty  —  comparatively  speaking  at 
least.  It  is  a  hard  question  for  any  woman  to  de- 
cide —  a  mighty  hard  question." 

"  You  are  wrong.  You  judge  from  the  cynical, 
money-getting  standpoint  of  Broadway.  There  are 
bigger  and  finer  and  nobler  things  in  the  world  than 
money.  It's  the  right  of  the  thing  that  counts." 

"  Perhaps  it  is,  Mr.  Rogers,  but  most  women  don't 


286  THE  BRUTE 

look  at  things  that  way.  They  are  creatures  of  im- 
pulse. Logic  is  not  their  strong  point.  You  expect 
too  much  of  your  wife.  I  have  known  a  great  many 
women  —  in  my  time  —  and  my  experience  is  that 
the  best  of  them  have  their  price."  He  noticed  Don- 
ald's dissenting  gesture,  but  waved  his  interruption 
aside.  "  Don't  misunderstand  me.  I  do  not  neces- 
sarily mean  in  a  wrong  way.  It  may  be  a  title,  or 
a  million,  with  some  —  with  others  the  price  of  a 
meal,  or  a  lodging  for  the  night.  The  man  who  ex- 
pects too  much  of  women  is  bound  to  be  disap- 
pointed. Let  your  wife  keep  this  money.  With  it 
she  will  be  happy  —  contented.  Without  it,  she  will 
be  miserable.  She  has  tasted  the  pleasures  of  wealth 

—  now  —  and  her  old  life  will  seem  doubly  distaste- 
ful to  her.     Don't  be  unreasonable.     Remember  that 
after  all,  she  is,  like  most  women,  a  good  deal  of  a 
child." 

Donald  took  up  his  hat,  and  his  face  showed  the 
disappointment  he  felt.  "  Mr.  Brennan,"  he  said, 
"  I'm  sorry  I  can't  think  as  you  do.  I  was  brought 
up  to  know  the  difference  between  right  and  wrong, 
and  I  haven't  forgotten  it.  It  would  be  impossible 

—  absolutely  impossible  —  for  me  to  share  in  any 


THE  BRUTE  287 

way  in  this  money,  or  to  let  my  boy  do  so.  On  that 
point  I  am  determined." 

Brennan  looked  grave,  and  regarded  Donald  with 
cynical  compassion.  "  I'm  sorry  to  hear  it,  Mr. 
Rogers.  In  that  case  I  do  not  see  that  I  can  be  of 
any  service  to  you." 

"  Then  you  won't  undertake  to  see  Mrs.  Rogers, 
and  convince  her  of  her  mistake?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  it  will  have  any  result.  You  are 
very  young  yet,  Mr.  Rogers.  You  look  at  this  thing 
entirely  too  seriously." 

Donald  turned  away  with  a  great  sense  of  bitter- 
ness, of  injustice,  in  his  heart.  "My  God!"  he 
cried.  "  How  can  you  say  such  a  thing?  There 
is  only  one  way  to  look  at  it,  and  that  is  the  right 
way.  In  your  heart,  you  know  it.  Don't  you  sup- 
pose it  would  be  the  easiest  way,  for  me  to  take  this 
money?  Isn't  there  every  reason  why  I  should? 
My  wife  —  my  child  —  my  business  interests,  all 
urge  me  to  accept  it  —  to  make  of  myself  that  most 
contemptible  thing  in  the  world  —  a  man  who  is 
willing  to  live  on  a  woman  —  to  share  with  her  what 
she  has  got  from  her  lover.  You  know  what  they 
call  such  creatures.  You  know  that  no  decent,  self- 


288  THE  BRUTE 

respecting  man  could  do  what  you  have  advised  me 
to  do.  I  value  my  wife  —  my  home,  more  than  most 
men  do  —  I  have  given  them  the  best  I  had  in  me  — 
but  one  thing  I  value  even  more  than  them,  and  that 
is  my  self-respect.  I  have  not  made  a  great  success 
in  life,  in  a  material  way,  but  what  I  have  made,  I 
have  made  honestly.  I  have  always  been  able  to 
look  the  world  squarely  in  the  face,  without  feeling 
ashamed,  and  I  propose  to  keep  on  doing  so.  Ad- 
vise my  wife  as  you  please.  Her  mother  and  sister 
are  with  you.  But  I  want  you  to  understand  — 
the  whole  lot  of  you — :that  she  need  not  expect 
me  to  forgive  her,  and  take  her  back,  so  long  as 
she  keeps  a  dollar  of  this  man's  money,  for  I  won't 
do  it  —  by  God,  I  won't  do  it !  "  He  flung  angrily 
toward  the  door. 

Mr.  Brennan  stared  at  him  for  a  moment,  then 
reached  out  his  hand.  "  Mr.  Rogers,"  he  said, 
"  your  views  may  not  be  practical,  and  they  may  not 
bring  you  happiness,  but,  by  God,  sir,  I  respect  you 
for  them.  Good-day." 

Donald  went  back  to  his  office  like  a  man  who  has 
met  a  crushing  blow,  but  met  it  undaunted.  He 
found  Bobbie,  tired  of  his  pencil  and  paper,  looking 


THE  BRUTE  289 

out  of  the  window  at  the  boats  on  the  river,  and 
wailing  for  his  mother. 

The  father  disposed  of  his  mail  while  the  boy 
played  about  his  desk,  gave  his  assistant  a  few  in- 
structions, and,  with  Bobbie  holding  his  hand,  once 
more  started  up-town.  On  the  way,  he  bought  the 
child  some  little  chocolate  cigars,  thereby  lulling 
him  into  temporary  forgetfulness  of  his  mother's 
absence.  Life  seemed  all  of  a  sudden  to  have  be- 
come very  gray  and  bitter. 

One  ray  of  light,  however,  pierced  the  overshadow- 
ing gloom.  Forbes,  his  partner  in  the  glass-plant 
venture,  had  wired  Donald  from  Parkersburg  that  he 
had  succeeded  in  securing  from  some  bankers  there 
the  necessary  money  to  tide  over  the  crisis  in  the 
company's  affairs.  Several  large  orders  had  come 
in  also.  It  appeared  certain  that  they  would  be 
able  to  weather  the  storm.  The  good  news  seemed 
trifling,  somehow,  in  his  present  state  of  mind,  but 
it  was  something,  and  for  the  moment  he  felt  grate- 
ful. 


CHAPTER  XX 

EDITH  ROGERS  came  to  see  her  husband, 
probably  less  inclined  toward  the  sacrifice 
upon  which  he  insisted  than  she  had  been  when 
he  left  her  the  Saturday  before.  Her  heart  had 
ached  to  see  her  boy,  but  she  felt  a  growing  re- 
sentment toward  Donald,  for  what  she  felt  was  his 
hard-heartedness.  Her  feelings  in  this  direction  had 
been  fanned  to  a  flame  by  the  arguments  of  her 
mother,  who  had  succeeded  in  persuading  her  that 
what  Donald  asked  was  unreasonable  and  wrong. 
She  knew  that  the  affair  between  West  and  herself 
had  not  gone  to  the  ultimate  lengths  that  Donald 
evidently  suspected  —  she  did  not  stop  to  consider 
that  in  all  else  but  this  one  thing  she  had  been  utterly 
faithless,  and  that  even  this  step  she  would  have 
taken,  had  not  death  intervened  and  saved  her.  Be- 
ing a  woman,  she  could  not  put  herself  in  Donald's 
place,  and  understand  the  brutal  way  in  which  his 
feelings  had  been  outraged  by  the  treachery  of  the 
two  persons  on  earth  whom  he  had  most  loved  and 

290 


THE  BRUTE  291 

trusted  —  his  wife  and  his  friend.  Hence  it  was  in 
no  spirit  of  repentance  that  she  entered  the  little 
room  in  which  she  had  spent  so  many  weary  hours, 
but  rather  as  one  who  came  to  demand  her  rights. 

Her  mother  had  returned  from  New  York  furious 
with  Donald,  and  determined  to  use  every  means  in 
her  power  to  prevent  a  reconciliation  between  him 
and  Edith.  Her  carefully  detailed  description  of 
the  reception  which  her  son-in-law  had  given  her, 
a  description  which  lost  nothing  by  reason  of  the 
fury  into  which  Mrs.  Pope  had  succeeded  in  working 
herself,  made  Edith  realize  fully  that  Donald  was 
very  much  in  earnest,  and  not  at  all  likely  to  return 
to  her,  however  long  she  might  wait  for  him  to  do  so. 

There  was  clearly  but  one  thing  to  do:  she  must 
go  to  him,  and  endeavor  to  show  him  the  cruelty,  the 
unreasonableness,  of  his  attitude.  Something  in  the 
firm  stand  which  he  had  taken  compelled  her  admira- 
tion; even  while  it  dealt  a  blow  to  her  pride.  She 
had  never  known  Donald  to  be  like  this  before  —  he 
had  always  humored  her,  always  been  apologetic, 
regretful  because  he  was  unable  to  gratify  her  every 
desire.  She  longed  for  the  moment  to  come,  when 
she  might  see  him  and  Bobbie  again,  and  determined 


292  THE  BRUTE 

to  use  every  power  of  attraction  she  possessed  to 
bring  him  to  her  way  of  thinking.  It  had  been  easy 
in  the  past  —  her  tears,  her  reproaches,  had  usually 
brought  him  contritely  to  her  feet. 

Mrs.  Pope,  in  her  anger,  attempted  to  dissuade 
Edith  from  this  intention.  "  I  shouldn't  go  near 
him,  my  dear,"  she  said,  her  eyes  snapping.  "  Let 
him  stay  there  alone  for  a  week  or  two,  with  Bobbie 
to  look  after.  That  will  bring  him  to  his  senses." 
Edith,  however,  would  not  listen  to  her.  "  I  shall 
go,  mother,"  she  said.  "  After  all,  Donald  has  been 
pretty  badly  treated.  I  never  should  have  acted 
as  I  did.  I  mean  to  do  my  best  to  let  him  see  that  I 
care  for  him  just  as  much  as  I  ever  did.  Of  course, 
he  must  be  reasonable,  too.  I'm  not  going  to  give 
up  this  money.  He  ought  not  to  ask  it." 

Alice  had  been  listening  to  the  conversation  be- 
tween her  mother  and  sister  in  gloomy  silence.  Mr. 
Hall  had  decided  to  move  to  the  hotel  for  the  re- 
mainder of  his  stay,  and  she  was  annoyed  to  think 
that  all  her  plans  had  been  upset.  "  What's  the  use 
of  deluding  yourself,  Edith,"  she  remarked  point- 
edly. "  Donald  will  make  you  give  up  that  money 
as  sure  as  fate.  I  never  saw  him  so  angry." 


THE  BRUTE  293 

"  Alice,  you  talk  like  a  fool,"  said  her  mother. 
"How  can  he  make  her  give  it  up?  He's  hardly 
likely  to  use  a  club." 

"  Wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,"  Alice  flung  at  them, 
as  she  left  the  room.  "  Edith  has  needed  one,  for 
some  time."  Mrs.  Pope  was  aghast.  "  Sometimes, 
Edith,"  she  confided  to  the  latter,  "  I  think  Alice  is 
losing  her  mind."  Edith  was  not  so  sure.  She  had 
always  had  great  faith  in  her  sister's  judgment,  and 
the  latter's  remark  worried  her. 

There  was  one  way,  she  concluded,  and  only  one, 
to  deal  with  Donald.  She  must  make  herself  as  at- 
tractive, as  alluring,  as  possible.  When  she  dressed 
herself,  the  following  afternoon,  for  her  trip  to  the 
city,  she  put  on  her  most  becoming  gown,  her  most 
effective  hat.  She  prepared  herself  with  the  great- 
est care.  Her  maid  spent  most  of  the  forenoon 
getting  her  ready,  manicuring  her  nails,  washing 
and  drying  her  hair,  massaging  her  face,  doing 
everything,  in  fact,  that  might  be  done  to  enhance 
her  physical  charms.  She  knew  she  had  always  been 
a  beautiful  woman  —  she  was  sure,  when  she  glanced 
at  herself  in  the  cheval  glass  in  her  bedroom,  that 
she  had  never  appeared  to  greater  advantage.  It 


294  THE  BRUTE 

did  not  occur  to  her  that  she  might  make  a  better 
impression  upon  her  husband  in  the  sober  garb  of 
repentance.  She  wanted  to  attract  him,  to  charm 
him,  to  force  him  to  desire  her  so  greatly  that  he 
would  make  any  sacrifice  in  order  to  bring  her  to 
his  arms. 

In  all  this  she  showed  her  lack  of  understanding 
of  Donald's  character.  Everything  she  wore,  from 
her  dainty  suede  slippers  to  her  costly  hat,  she  owed 
to  West.  The  jewels  she  wore  had  been  purchased 
with  his  money.  The  gold  purse  which  dangled  so 
carelessly  from  her  wrist,  accompanied  by  an  array 
of  pencils,  vanity  boxes  and  fashionable  gew-gaws, 
his  wealth  alone  had  made  possible.  Had  she  but 
appreciated  it,  everything  about  her  was  calculated 
to  send  Donald  into  a  storm  of  rage,  rather  than  to 
attract  him  and  bring  him  submissively  to  her  feet. 

Mrs.  Pope  nodded  proudly  as  her  daughter  came 
down  the  stairs.  "  You  look  stunning,  dear  —  a 
wife  of  whom  any  man  might  be  proud.  Don't  give 
in  an  inch.  You  have  right  on  your  side,  and  it 
only  requires  a  little  courage  to  win."  She  settled 
herself  comfortably  in  her  chair.  "  Would  you 
mind  ringing  for  Richards,  my  dear?  I  must  have 


THE  BRUTE  295 

a  refreshing  drink  of  some  sort.  This  heat  is  posi- 
tively unbearable." 

The  ride  to  town  was  hot  and  uncomfortable. 
Edith,  on  her  arrival,  went  at  once  to  a  hotel 
near  the  station  and  ordered  dinner.  She  did  not 
feel  particularly  hungry  —  she  was  too  nervous  and 
excited  for  that;  but  she  felt  the  need  of  something 
to  sustain  her  throughout  the  trying  ordeal  which,  she 
knew,  lay  before  her.  Then,  too,  she  had  at  least 
two  hours  to  wait,  before  eight  o'clock,  at  which 
time  she  felt  that  Donald  would  have  finished  his 
dinner  and  be  ready  to  receive  her. 

She  drove  up-town,  after  her  meal,  in  a  taxicab, 
and  arrived  at  the  Roxborough  a  little  before  eight. 
The  tawdry  entrance  to  the  place,  with  its  imitation 
marbles  and  imitation  palms,  sent  a  shiver  of  ap- 
prehension through  her.  God,  to  come  back  to  a 
place  like  this!  It  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  In 
this  frame  of  mind  she  ascended  in  the  elevator, 
and  in  a  moment  stood  before  the  doorway  to  their 
apartment.  Everything  seemed  the  same  —  even 
the  crack  in  the  tinted  plaster  to  the  left  of  the 
door,  the  smell  of  gas  and  cooking,  the  flickering 
gas  jet  in  the  hall.  She  realized  their  familiarity, 


296  THE  BRUTE 

yet  she  might  have  been  away  for  ages,  so  far  re- 
moved from  her  present  life  did  they  seem. 

Donald  opened  the  door,  and  quietly  closed  it 
after  her,  welcoming  her  with  grave  politeness. 

"  Donald ! "  she  cried,  as  he  came  toward  her. 
"  Where  is  Bobbie?  " 

"  In  his  room,"  he  replied. 

"  I  want  to  see  him." 

"He's  asleep." 

He  gazed  at  her  exquisite  pongee  gown,  her  costly 
hat,  the  lace  coat  she  carried  upon  her  arm,  and 
frowned. 

"  How  could  you  take  the  poor  child  away  like 
that?  It  must  have  broken  his  heart  to  leave  all 
his  things  —  his  pony,  and  his  boat,  and  all.  Is 
he  well?  Have  you  taken  good  care  of  him?  You 
know  how  careful  I  always  am  about  what  he  has 
to  eat." 

Donald's  frown  deepened.  "  Bobbie  is  very  well," 
he  said  slowly.  "  It  seems  to  me  there  is  a  bigger 
question  between  us  than  that." 

"  Can  there  be  any  bigger  question  than  Bobbie?  " 
she  asked. 

He  gazed  at  her  for  a  few  moments  in  moody 


THE  BRUTE  297 

silence.  "Did  you  come  here  to  tell  me  that?" 
he  presently  asked. 

"  No,  Donald.     I  came  to  ask  your  forgiveness." 

"  You  know  the  conditions  under  which  I  will 
discuss  the  matter,"  he  interrupted. 

"  Yes.  You  blame  me  for  taking  this  money. 
You  want  me  to  give  it  up.  Don't  you  know  that 
all  I  have  done  has  been  for  him  ?  "  She  glanced 
significantly  toward  the  door  of  the  bedroom. 

Donald  stood  for  a  moment  in  silence.  He  felt 
in  this  woman  no  sense  of  sorrow,  of  repentance,  but 
only  a  stubborn  insistence  upon  what  she  considered 
her  rights. 

"  Was  it  for  him  that  you  agreed  to  abandon 
your  home,  your  husband,  and  run  away  with  an- 
other man?  "  he  asked  bitterly. 

She  reproached  him,  pleading  with  her  eyes,  her 
voice.  "  Oh  —  don't  —  don't ! "  she  cried.  "  Can't 
you  forgive  me  ?  Can't  you  ?  " 

"  Not  until  you  show  yourself  worthy  of  forgive- 
ness. You  belong  to  him  as  long  as  you  accept  his 
money." 

She  came  up  to  him,  her  hands  outstretched. 
"  Donald !  "  she  cried.  "  That  is  what  I  want  to  talk 


298  THE  BRUTE 

to  you  about.  I  have  been  a  very  foolish  woman. 
I  have  done  things  that  I  can  never  forgive  myself 
for  as  long  as  I  live.  I  am  bitterly  —  bitterly  — 
sorry.  If  it  were  not  for  our  boy,  I  would  go  away, 
and  never  trouble  you  again.  I  have  been  a  misera- 
ble fool,  and  I  cannot  blame  you  if  you  hate  and 
despise  me.  I  threw  away  everything  that  was  dear 
to  me  for  nothing  —  nothing !  Now  I  know  that  it 
is  your  love  and  my  boy's  that  I  want  more  than 
anything  in  the  world.  But,  Donald,  what  has  this 
money  to  do  with  what  I  have  done?  Will  it  make 
it  any  the  less  wrong,  to  give  it  up?  If  you  are 
really  willing  to  give  me  another  chance,  can't  you 
do  it  without  bringing  this  question  of  money  into 
the  matter?  Can't  you  do  it  because  I  am  sincerely, 
honestly  repentant;  because  I  love  you,  and  want 
your  love,  your  forgiveness  so  much  —  so  very 
much?  "  She  put  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  there 
were  tears  in  her  eyes.  "  Donald,  listen  to  me, 
please  —  won't  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  had  come  here  in  the  same  poor  things 
you  wore  before  all  this  happened,"  he  said,  turning 
coldly  from  her,  "  it  would  be  easier  for  me  to  for- 
get. What  do  you  mean  by  flaunting  this  man's 


THE  BRUTE  299 

money  in  my  face,  with  your  jewels  — •  your  finery?  " 
He  looked  at  her,  and  a  feeling  almost  of  disgust 
crept  over  him.  "  Can't  you  see  that  everything 
about  you  reeks  of  him?  " 

"  Oh,  Donald,"  she  cried,  "  don't  be  angry  with 
me  — •  please  don't.  I  didn't  think  about  my  clothes 
• —  indeed,  I  didn't."  She  seemed  Unable  to  under- 
stand that  it  was  not  her  clothes  he  objected  to,  but 
what  they  represented. 

•  "  You  mean  you  did  not  think  about  my  feelings. 
You  never  do  think  about  the  things  that  count." 

She  turned  away  from  him,  sobbing.  "  Oh,  don't ! 
How  can  you  say  such  things  to  me?  Isn't  it  the 
repentance  of  my  heart  that  counts  ?  " 

"If  there  were  any  real  repentance  in  your 
heart,"  he  said,  "  you  would  put  those  things  from 
you  as  though  they  were  polluted."  He  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  room,  unable  to  contain  his 
anger. 

Edith  saw  that  upon  the  one  point  —  that  of 
West's  money  —  he  was  inflexible.  She  looked  up 
with  an  air  of  resignation.  "  Very  well,"  she  said 
suddenly.  "  I  will  do  as  you  ask.  I  will  give  up 
this  money.  I  will  never  touch  another  penny  of  it 


300  THE  BRUTE 

as  long  as  I  live,  but  I  want  it  put  aside  for  Bobbie." 

*'  Never !  "  he  cried  angrily. 

He  had  thought,  when  she  began  to  speak,  that 
she  had  yielded ;  her  concluding  words  told  him  that 
she  was  only  quibbling. 

"  Donald,  you  can't  mean  what  you  say.  Think 
of  his  future !  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  argue  the  question,"  he  ex- 
claimed impatiently.  "  You  know  perfectly  well  I 
will  never  consent  to  what  you  ask.  It's  contempti- 
ble." 

Again  she  began  to  sob.  "  How  can  you  be  so 
cruel?  How  can  you?  "  she  moaned. 

"Isn't  it  true?"  he  replied  indignantly. 

"  It  doesn't  make  any  difference  how  you  hurt  me 
—  I  know  I  deserve  it  —  but  you  shall  not  take  this 
chance  away  from  my  boy.  It  isn't  right!  it  isn't 
fair!  Hurt  me  all  you  want  to,  revenge  yourself 
upon  me  to  the  best  of  your  ability,  but  don't  take 
it  out  on  him.  I  am  fighting  for  his  happiness,  and 
I  intend  to  give  it  to  him." 

"  Then  you  are  going  about  it  in  a  very  strange 
way.  Let  him  grow  up  and  go  out  into  the  world 
with  clean  hands  and  a  clear  conscience;  let  him 


THE  BRUTE  301 

know  that  truth,  and  right,  and  honor  are  more  im- 
portant than  all  the  money  in  the  world,  and  I'll  an- 
swer for  his  happiness." 

"  He  need  never  know,"  she  began. 

"  You  know,  and  I  know.  I  refuse  to  degrade 
myself,  even  for  his  sake." 

"  There  is  nothing  I  would  not  do  for  his  sake." 

"  Nothing !  The  very  first  thing  is  to  give  up 
this  shameful  inheritance,  and  you  refuse  to  do  it." 

"  It  is  for  his  sake  that  I  refuse." 

Donald  turned  away  from  her.  There  seemed  no 
use  in  trying  to  appeal  to  her  sense  of  right. 

"  Donald,"  she  began  again,  "  if  you  will  not  let 
Bobbie  have  the  money,  then  give  it  to  my  mother." 

"  No,  I  won't  do  it,  and  I  have  told  her  so.  Even 
your  sister,  it  seems,  has  decency  enough  to  see  that 
I  am  right." 

"  If  Alice  had  been  married  eight  years,  and  had 
a  child,  she  might  feel  differently." 

"  I  hope  not,"  he  said,  without  looking  at  her. 

Edith  threw  herself  disconsolately  into  a  chair. 
"  You  make  everything  so  hard  —  so  very  hard," 
she  cried.  "  Is  there  nothing  I  can  say  that  will 
move  you?  Is  your  business  in  West  Virginia  noth- 


303  THE  BRUTE 

ing  to  you  ?  Tell  me,  Donald,  are  you  willing  to  see 
that  fail?  " 

He  turned  on  her,  indignant.  "  I  did  not  think 
you  would  come  here  and  taunt  me  with  that!  Let 
it  fail  —  a  thousand  times ;  let  every  cent  I  have  in 
it  go,  rather  than  owe  its  success  to  him !  " 

"  How  can  you  be  so  bitter  ?  " 

"  Haven't  you  done  enough  to  make  me  so  ?  " 

"  If  this  business  does  fail,  what  then  ?  " 

He  swept  his  hand  about  the  room.  "  This,"  he 
said.  "  Whatever  I  have  —  however  little  it  may 
be  —  as  long  as  it  is  honest." 

She  followed  his  gaze  and  shivered,  as  though  the 
place  chilled  her.  "  And  you  expect  me  to  come 
back  to  such  a  life  ?  "  she  asked  bitterly. 

"  If  you  come  back  at  all  —  yes." 

"  To  cook,  and  scrub,  and  scrape,  and  save,  and 
wear  out  my  life  like  a  servant !  Ugh !  "  She  shud- 
dered. 

"  So  it  was  yourself  you  were  thinking  of,  after 
all,"  he  cried  scornfully.  "  After  what  you  have 
done,  you  ought  to  thank  God  for  the  chance." 

She  got  up  and  approached  him,  holding  out  her 
hands  appealingly.  "  Oh,  Donald  —  Donald !  "  she 


THE  BRUTE  303 

cried.  "  Please  don't  make  me  do  this  — •  please 
don't.  I  can't  stand  it  —  indeed,  I  can't." 

"  I  do  not  make  you  do  it,"  he  answered  her.  "  I 
do  not  even  ask  you  to  do  it.  You  know  the  condi- 
tions under  which  you  can  return  here.  Do  as  you 
please." 

"  Can't  you  show  a  little  generosity?  I  had  hoped 
to  come  to  you  and  talk  over  our  affairs  in  a  friendly 
spirit." 

"  There  is  nothing  to  talk  over.  You  know  your 
duty.  There  is  only  one  question,  and  that  question 
is,  are  you  going  to  do  it  ?  " 

She  stood  for  a  long  time,  as  though  unable  to 
make  up  her  mind.  Suddenly  she  put  the  whole 
thing  aside.  "  It  is  too  big  a  question  to  decide  off- 
hand," she  said,  walking  away  from  him,  her  hands 
clenched.  "  Donald  —  "  she  turned  —  "I  want  to 
see  Bobbie."  She  took  a  step  toward  the  bedroom 
door. 

Donald  stepped  in  front  of  her,  blocking  the  way. 
"  No !  "  he  cried  passionately.  "  No !  " 

"  Donald !  Don't !  "  she  exclaimed,  alarmed  at  his 
manner. 

"  You  cannot  come  in  here.'* 


304  THE  BRUTE 

"  I  cannot  see  my  own  child?  You  dare  tell  me 
that?  " 

"  Yes.  You  shall  not  see  him.  You  shall  not  go 
near  him,  until  you  agree  to  do  as  I  say.*' 

"  You  shall  not  do  this ! "  she  cried,  her  eyes  blaz- 
ing. "  It  is  wrong  —  wrong !  " 

"  Then  come  to  your  senses." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  could  be  so  cruel?  "  she 
asked  slowly.  "  Is  it  possible  that  you  could  de- 
prive that  innocent  child  of  his  mother's  love?  " 

"  It  is  you  who  are  depriving  him  of  it  —  not  I." 

"  Have  you  thought  what  it  will  mean,  if  you  do 
this  thing?  Don't  you  know  that  it  will  break  his 
heart  ?  Night  after  night  he  will  cry  for  me  —  for 
his  mother  —  and  you  cannot  comfort  him,  and  all 
through  the  long  days  he  will  want  me,  and  ask  for 
me,  and  will  not  understand.  You  talk  about  giv- 
ing him  truth,  and  right,  and  honor.  What  are 
those  things  to  him,  compared  to  a  mother's  love? 
You  shall  not  come  between  me  and  my  boy  —  you 
shall  not  —  you  shall  not !  "  She  concluded  with  a 
burst  of  hysterical  sobbing,  then  again  started 
toward  the  bedroom.  "  Open  that  door !  "  she  de- 
manded. "  Open  it,  I  say !  I  want  my  boy  !  " 


THE  BRUTE  305 

Donald  did  not  move.  "  No,"  he  said  quietly. 
"  Bobbie  stays  here  with  me." 

"  You  cannot  take  him  from  me.  The  law  will 
not  allow  you."  Her  face  blazed  with  angry  defi- 
ance. 

"  I  am  not  taking  him  from  you.  Your  home  is 
here.  It  is  the  best  that  I  can  provide.  If  you  are 
not  satisfied  with  it  —  if  you  leave  it  — •  you  leave 
me  and  your  child  as  well.  No  law  can  give  him 
back  to  you." 

She  had  grown  furiously  angry  by  this  time. 
"  Do  you  think  you  can  force  me  to  do  as  you  wish 
through  my  love  for  my  child?  "  she  cried. 

"  I  am  not  trying  to  force  you  to  do  anything," 
he  replied.  "  You  came  here.  I  did  not  ask  you  to 
come.  Whether  you  stay  or  not  depends  entirely 
upon  yourself.  The  decision  is  yours." 

She  turned  quickly  to  the  chair,  and  picked  up  her 
coat  and  purse. 

«  Very  well,"  she  said  bitterly.  "  If  you  can  be 
determined,  so  can  I.  I  shall  demand  my  child  in 
court.  We  shall  see  who  has  the  better  right  to 
him." 

"  You  wculd  not  dare." 


306  THE  BRUTE 

"  You  shall  see."     She  started  toward  the  door. 

"  You  are  making  a  terrible  mistake,"  he  warned 
her. 

She  paused,  turning  to  him.  "  No,"  she  said 
slowly.  "  It  is  you  who  are  making  the  mistake. 
I  came  here  with  nothing  but  love,  and  sorrow,  and 
regret  in  my  heart.  You  have  turned  them  all  to 
hate,  with  your  cruelty — 'your  brutality.  You 
have  tried  to  hurt  me  through  my  love  for  my  little 
boy,  and  I  hate  you  for  it  —  I  hate  you ! "  She 
swept  toward  the  door,  weeping  hysterically. 

"  I  have  asked  you  to  do  nothing  but  what  is 
right,  and  you  know  it." 

"  No  —  I  do  not  know  it.  Is  it  right  to  keep  me 
from  my  child?  Is  it  right  to  ask  me  to  sacrifice 
his  whole  future  ?  If  that  is  right  —  I  want  none 
of  it."  She  placed  her  hand  upon  the  door-knob, 
and  turned  it.  Donald  followed  her,  an  ominous 
look  in  his  eyes.  "  Edith  —  where  are  you  going?  " 
he  demanded. 

"  I  am  going  back  to  New  London.  If  you  have 
any  regard  for  me,  if  you  have  any  regard  for  your 
child,  you  will  come  to  me  there."  She  threw  the 
door  open,  and  stood  upon  the  threshold.  * 


THE  BRUTE  307 

Donald  approached  her  still  more  closely.  "  If 
you  go  out  of  that  door,  you  go  out  of  my  life  for- 
ever," he  said  sternly.  "  I  shall  never  come  to  you 
—  of  that  you  may  be  sure." 

"  Very  well  —  you ' —  you  brute !  "  she  cried,  and 
turned  to  go. 

"  Stop ! "  he  cried,  springing  toward  her. 

"  No.  You  have  gone  too  far."  She  swept  into 
the  hall. 

He  took  her  roughly  by  the  arm.  "  Come  back 
here,"  he  cried,  beside  himself  with  fury.  "  Since 
you  say  I  am  a  brute,  I  will  act  like  one."  He 
pulled  her  forcibly  into  the  room  and  slammed  the 
door. 

"  Don't,"  she  cried,  resisting  him.  "  Oh !  You 
are  hurting  me  —  Donald !  "  She  looked  at  him  in 
wonder. 

"  Be  quiet !  "  he  said.  "  I  am  not  hurting  you 
half  so  much  as  you  are  hurting  me.  I  have  told 
you  what  you  must  do,  and  you  have  got  to  do  it." 

"What  do  you  want  with  me?"  she  cried,  still 
struggling  with  him.  "  Let  go  my  arm  — •  let  go  of 
me,  I  tell  you !  I  want  to  go !  Oh !  " 

"  You  shall  not  go." 


308  THE  BRUTE 

"  I  will !     You  have  no  right  to  keep  me  here." 

"  Be  quiet,  I  say."  He  forced  her  toward  the 
center  of  the  room. 

She  burst  into  tears.  "  How  dare  you  treat  me 
like  this?"  she  cried.  "How  dare  you?  Are  you 
mad?" 

"  If  I  am,  it  is  you  who  have  made  me  so,"  he  said, 
in  a  fury.  "  You  talk  about  love,  and  repentance, 
and  you  come  here  and  insult  and  humiliate  me  with 
every  word  you  say  —  with  everything  about  you. 
Whom  do  you  have  to  thank  for  that  dress,  that 
coat,  those  diamonds,  that  jeweled  purse,  and  the 
money  in  it?  West!  West!  West!"  He  swept 
upon  her  a  look  that  made  her  eyes  fall.  "  I  tell 
you  I  won't  have  it  —  do  you  understand?  I  won't 
have  it ! " 

She  stared  at  him  in  absolute  amazement,  and, 
with  her  wonder  there  came  a  feeling  of  admiration, 
almost,  at  his  mastery  of  her.  Never  before,  in  all 
the  eight  years  of  their  married  life,  had  she  seen 
him  as  he  was  now  —  never  before  had  he  dominated 
her.  She  felt  a  child  in  his  grasp,  and  in  some 
strange  way  her  anger  began  to  leave  her,  and  a 
sense  almost  of  gladness  at  this  primitive  method  of 


THE  BRUTE  309 

dealing  with  the  problem  which  confronted  them 
swept  over  her. 

"  Donald,"  she  called  softly  to  him.  "  Donald!  " 
but  he  did  not  hear  her. 

"  You  are  my  wife  —  mine,  do  you  hear  ?  "  he 
cried,  then  tore  from  her  arm  the  jeweled  purse,  and 
flung  it  violently  from  him.  "  Take  off  those  things 
—  take  them  off !  The  sight  of  them  insults  me !  " 
He  grasped  the  lace  coat  she  held  over  her  arm,  and 
threw  it  aside.  "  He  gave  you  this  necklace  — 
damn  him ! "  he  cried,  tearing  it  from  her  neck,  and 
throwing  it  upon  the  floor. 

She  looked  up  at  him,  amazed.  "  Donald  —  lis- 
ten to  me  —  please !  "  she  cried. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  her.  "  Do  as  I  tell  you," 
he  commanded.  "  Take  off  that  stuff  —  take  it 
off!" 

She  tremblingly  removed  from  her  fingers  a  dia- 
mond and  ruby  ring,  and  another  of  pearls,  which 
her  mother  had  persuaded  her  to  buy. 

"  Give  them  to  me."  He  took  the  rings,  and 
hurled  them  across  the  room. 

"  Donald,  how  can  you  treat  me  like  this  ?  "  she 
protested  weakly. 


'310  THE  BRUTE 

•"  I  shall  treat  you  as  I  like.  Henceforth  I  am 
master  in  this  house." 

"  You  have  no  right  — "  she  began. 

He  took  her  by  the  arm,  and  flung  her  to  the  floor. 
"  Get  down  on  your  knees,"  he  said,  "  and  thank 
God  that  you  have  your  husband,  and  your  child, 
and  a  roof  above  your  head." 

She  looked  up  at  him  in  wonder.  He  seemed  no 
longer  the  kind  and  patient  husband  whom  she  had 
held  in  secret  contempt  because  of  what  had  seemed 
to  her  his  lack  of  force  —  of  spirit.  Here  was  a 
man  who  meant  to  be  obeyed. 

"  And,  when  you  have  done  so,"  she  heard  him  say- 
ing, "  ask  Him  to  help  you  to  be  worthy  of  them. 
God  knows  you  need  it."  He  stood  over  her,  look- 
ing down  at  her  with  fierce  determination. 

She  caught  his  glance,  and  her  eyes  fell.  "  You 
—  you  won't  let  me  go  ?  "  she  faltered. 

"  No.  Your  place  is  here,  and  here  you  shall 
stay.  I  have  stood  all  of  this  folly  that  I  intend  to 
stand." 

She  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows  of  the  couch  be- 
side which  she  was  kneeling,  and  lay  thus  for  a  long 
time,  shaking  with  sobs.  Into  her  mind  had  come  a 


s- 


'YOU — YOU  WON'T  LET  ME  GO?"  SHE  FALTERED 


THE  BRUTE  311 

new  emotion  — :  a  new  understanding  of  her  love  for 
her  husband.  'Always  before  he  had  failed  to  mas- 
ter her,  to  make  her  feel  that  in  the  conjunction  of 
their  two  lives  he  was  the  dominant  spirit,  willing 
even  to  govern  her  by  force,  when  force  seemed  nec- 
essary to  her  welfare.  What  had  changed  him  so? 
What  had  caused  him  to  keep  her  here,  at  his  side, 
against  her  will?  What,  indeed,  but  his  love  for 
her?  She  knew  it  was  that,  knew  that,  had  he  been 
indifferent  to  her,  he  would  have  let  her  pass  from 
his  life  without  lifting  a  hand  to  prevent  it.  A 
fierce  joy  rose  within  her  heart  that  this  man  de- 
sked  her  so  greatly  —  that  he  held  her,  as  the  primi- 
tive man  held  his  women,  by  the  right  of  might. 
She  wanted  all  the  luxuries  that  had  come  to  her  — 
wanted  them  still,  but,  compared  with  the  joy  of 
realizing  that  Donald  still  loved  her,  they  seemed  as 
nothing. 

So  he  had  held  her — ;  meant  to  hold  her,  against 
everything  in  the  world  —  against  even  herself,  and 
her  own  folly.  She  rejoiced  in  the  thought,  and  her 
sobbing  ceased.  After  all  —  he  —  he  and  her  little 
boy  —  were  more  to  her  than  anything  that  money 
could  buy.  Had  Donald  temporized  with  her  —  al- 


THE  BRUTE 

lowed  her  to  keep  the  money  that  had  come  to  her, 
she  knew  in  her  heart  that  she  would  have  secretly 
despised  him,  that  in  the  end  she  would  have 
ceased  to  love  him.  It  seemed  good  to  be  home 
again  — ;  good  to  be  alive.  She  had  always  wanted 
someone  to  rule  her  —  she  felt  strangely  humble, 
knowing  her  own  weakness.  Presently  she  raised 
her  head,  and  found  him  standing  beside  her.  With 
a  swift,  eager  movement  she  grasped  his  hand. 

"  I'm  so  —  very  —  very  glad !  "  she  sobbed,  un- 
able to  keep  back  her  tears.  "  I  did  not  —  want  — 
to  go.  I  never  —  never  —  want  to  —  go  away  from 
you  —  again."  She  looked  up,  her  eyes  shining. 
"  Donald  —  do  you  —  still  care  for  —  me  —  a  lit- 
tle? "  she  asked,  in  a  quavering  voice.  "Do  you?" 

Donald's  sudden  burst  of  rage  had  gone.  He 
stood  looking  at  her  with  a  deep  sadness  in  his  eyes. 
After  all,  she  seemed  so  much  a  child.  "  Do  you 
think  I  would  take  the  trouble  to  keep  you  here,  if  I 
did  not?  "  he  asked. 

She  began  to  sob  violently.  "  Donald  —  forgive 
me  —  forgive  me !  "  she  cried.  "  I  shall  —  never  go 
away  from  you  —  and  —  Bobbie  —  as  —  long  — 
as  —  I  live." 


THE  BRUTE  313 

He  looked  down,  not  understanding  this  sudden 
change  in  her.  "  I  have  kept  you  here  for  the  sake 
of  our  boy,"  he  said  slowly,  "  and  here  you  must 
stay.  But,  for  your  sake  and  mine,  independent  of 
him,  you  must  answer  me  one  question.  Were  you 
West's  mistress  ?  " 

She  started  to  her  feet,  and  dashed  the  tears  from 
her  eyes.  "  No !  "  she  cried.  "  Before  God  —  no ! 
I  was  just  as  bad,  I  know,  for  I  intended  to  be,  but 
that  one  thing  I  had  not  done." 

"  Are  you  telling  me  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Donald,  I  am  —  I  am !  "  she  cried  hysteri- 
cally. 

"  Then  there  is  still  a  chance  for  you,  and  for 
me,"  he  said,  his  face  lighting  up  with  sudden  joy. 

"  Donald !  "  she  cried ;  "  Donald !  "  and  tried  to 
smile  through  her  tears.  As  she  spoke,  the  door  of 
the  bedroom  opened,  and  she  heard  a  childish  voice. 
"  Mamma ! "  it  said,  and  Bobbie  rushed  up  to  her, 
and  threw  his  arms  about  her. 

She  reached  down  and  clasped  him  to  her  breast. 
"  My  darling  —  my  darling !  "  she  cried,  as  she 
kissed  him. 

"  Mamma  — •  I'm    so    glad   you've    come.     I    had 


314  THE  BRUTE 

such  awful  dreams.  I  dreamed  that  you  and  papa 
were  fighting,  and  I  came  and  called,  and  you 
wouldn't  listen  to  me." 

"  Never  mind,  precious.  It's  all  right  now,"  she 
said,  soothing  him. 

"  Papa  told  me  if  I  prayed  very  hard  for  you  to 
come  back,  you  would  —  and  you  did,  didn't  you, 
mamma?  " 

"  Yes,  dear,"  she  said ;  then  looked  toward  her 
husband,  and  smiled  happily. 

"  And  you  won't  ever  go  away  and  leave  me  any 
more,  mamma?  " 

"  No,  Bobbie  —  never  more."  She  rose,  and, 
tearing  off  her  hat,  flung  it  carelessly  aside,  then 
went  up  to  her  husband,  holding  out  her  hands. 
"  Donald,"  she  said,  "  I  am  ready  to  do  anything 
you  wish  —  anything."  She  appeared  very  happy, 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  new  and  almost  girlish  em- 
barrassment. 

He  held  out  his  arms,  and  took  her  to  his  heart. 
"  Edith ! "  he  said ;  then  softly  kissed  her  hair. 

THE   END. 


TF   you   have    enjoyed   reading    "The 

Brute,"  you  will  be  equally  pleased 

with  "THE    GREEN   GOD"  by 

the   same   author 


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